Midnight Rescue
by ladylampetia
Summary: For every agent there was always that one assignment that affected you personally. That one case that for some reason stood out among the rest. And for Danny Taylor, that one case was Jordan Coliandri.
1. Jordan Coliandri

Disclaimer: Of _course, _I don't own Danny Taylor, or any other character from "Without a Trace."  I just like to play in their sandbox.  I don't know when I'm going to find the time, but I hope to expand on this.  Hope you like the first chapter!

It was nearing midnight when Agent Danny Taylor finished up his reports and turned his computer at his desk off for the night.  Raising his eyes from the darkened monitor, he gazed around the empty workroom, only now noting the drastic contrast of the complete silence to the brain-numbing bustle the office experienced during its long working hours.  

Though he was sure that there had to be a fair number of janitors and night-watchmen on duty, it certainly did feel like he was the only one in the building.  Not that Danny was complaining.  The quiet was rare, and its simple existence was one that he could appreciate.

Feeling a common weariness overtake him, the agent leaned backwards in his desk chair to stare out into space.  It was easy for the man to become lost in thought.  When you were Danny Taylor, if you weren't careful, you could spend an entire evening ruminating over any number of events both past and present.

Normally, Danny avoided divulging into his past, especially when it came to his professional life.  It could be an unhealthy pastime if not kept in check.

He probably would have surfaced from his thoughts just fine on his own that night, but instead, a loudly ringing telephone shirked him from his daze.

Danny Taylor's eyebrows pent together as he stared at the cell phone on his desk, commanding him to answer.  With a groaning sigh, he glanced to the clock.  Midnight.  He frowned, uncertain as to who would be calling this time of night.

His hand flicked open the phone and lifted it to his ear.  "Agent Taylor," he answered, sounding much more coherent than he actually felt.

"Danny?"

The voice was small and scared.

He sat up straighter in his chair, becoming instantly alert.  The voice was familiar as well.  "Jordan?"

"Look, I'm sorry to call you so late."

Danny frowned.  "Well, no, I was just closing up.  What's-"

"I need a rescue."

Assessing the situation, Danny rose up from his chair, and holding the phone between his neck and shoulder, grabbed his keys.  "What happened?" he demanded, moving to action.

"Relax it.  Nothing major.  Just got dropped off in the wrong part of town."  Danny sighed slightly at the response, certain that there was plenty more to the story than that.  With Jordan, there always was.  

"I just need a ride out of here.  That's all."

His vigor subsided at the request.  "I'm not a taxi service, Jordan."

"And don't you think I know that?  Do you think I like calling you in the middle of the night?  You _know_ I wouldn't call you unless I had no other option."

A pause longer than Danny would have liked stretched out between them.

"I'm clean, Danny," she said with conviction.  "Clean since April.  I swear.  I swear on my grandmother's _grave_-"

"Yeah, then why're you calling me?"  He shrugged into his jacket, wrinkled from a day's wear and tear.

"Because you gave me this number to call in emergencies."  Her sigh was prolonged and tired.  "And because…because there was no one else to call."

Danny gave a slight roll of his eyes.  Her voice, a little hurt that he was making her clarify, said, "And you know it's true."

"Okay," he said cooperatively.  It wasn't long before he had moved out of the office and into the downstairs section of the building.  "Where are you?"

"Corner of Port and Landis.  Near Fairton, outside the city."

Danny's frown deepened slightly.  It was a bad neighborhood, and one he only knew by reputation.  In all fairness, her location shouldn't have been surprising.

"Alright, I'm on my way."

He hung up with a flourish, and quickly made his way into the parking garage.  Finding his 2001 Dodge Stratus where he left it, he climbed inside and started up the engine.

As he backed out of the parking space, Danny couldn't help but shake his head at himself in disapproval.  He knew he shouldn't have kept her on the line, and he knew he shouldn't be dashing out into the back-alleys of the New York City underworld to find someone, who probably by the time he got there would have vanished just as easily as any missing person his team so feverishly sought after.

But tonight, for some reason, the rational side of Danny Taylor was set aside.

For every agent there was always that one assignment that affected you personally.  That one case that for some reason stood out among the rest.

And for Danny Taylor, that one case was Jordan Coliandri.


	2. Out of the Rain

Thank you so much for the reviews!  I wish I could write more often, but working two jobs leaves little time for hobbies.  Here's another section though.  Hopefully, the next one will be up soon. J

*

The light mist that had gathered when Danny took off from the complex had gradually transformed into a downpour by the time he entered into Fairton.  The rain hammered down more and more urgently on the roof of his car the closer he came to the outskirts of the city, as if somehow the clouds had known of his plans and were warning him of the absurdity of his actions.  Still, it was a warning he was able to ignore, and it took him less than a half hour to reach the intersection, even without the weather gods on his side.

The agent squinted through the haze as his wipers struggled to keep up with the rain that pelted his windshield.  The intersecting street signs were illuminated against the darkness by his headlights.  

Port and Landis.

Idling past rows of ill-kempt government houses, Danny looked around.  Well, the streets were here.  Whether Jordan still was or not – that was the question.

He received his answer much more quickly than he expected.  Against the headlights, a small imp of a girl scurried out from the side of a dilapidated building and waved her arm to him.  Making sure that it was her, Danny slowed his speed and pulled alongside the curb.  He didn't need to flicker his brights to let her know it was him.  She'd seen his car before.

The sixteen year old threw open the door of his Stratus and climbed inside as quickly as she could before slamming the door behind her.  

Jordan Coliandri in all her ragged glory turned to stare at him with wide eyes.

"Hey," she said, rain wetting her lips.

He looked her up and down.  "Hey."

She looked about the same as the last time he had seen her months before.  However, completely doused by the impromptu downpour, she appeared worse.  Her wet clothes clung to her goose-bumped skin, and her straight black hair – long due for a clipping – dripped rainwater onto the floor of his car.  

She sniffed backward.  "Got a towel?"

Looking away, Danny reached into the back of the Stratus.  Naturally, he had no towels, but there was a sheet from a barbeque he'd been to weeks before.  That would have to do.  

"Here."  When he handed it to her, their eyes met.  There were noticeable black bags under her blue eyes.  But hadn't they always been there?  Danny looked away.  He tried not to think about it.

"Thanks," she said.  Grabbing it, Jordan furiously ran it through her hair and over her shoulders.  She shot him one of her patented smartass smirks.  "Hope I didn't interrupt anything."

As he pulled away from the curb, Danny gave a small smirk himself, but it disappeared before hers did.  "I don't suppose you want to tell me what you're doing on the outskirts of Brooklyn at 1 in the morning."

Jordan made a show of taking in the atmosphere of the Stratus.  "This is a nice car, Danny."

He supposed right.  She didn't.  He wouldn't push her for details.  With the roles his status of an FBI agent asked him to fill, it was probably better if he didn't know anyway.  He nodded and turned his eyes back to the road.

A few minutes passed by, before Jordan let out a short groan and tossed the sheet into the back.

"What?" Danny asked.

He snuck a peek to see her rummaging through her decrepit beige tote-bag that held all her worldly possessions.  She pulled out a pink see-through jewel-case holding a burnt CD called "Mix #3" and opening the hinges, slid it into his CD player.  "I can't take awkward silence."

The first track came on, featuring an acoustic guitar player singing about some girl he had lost.  For some reason, the added background noise did give Danny a chance to speak.  He put on his blinker.  "You hungry?"

"Yeah."

He turned right.  "Okay."


	3. Diner

Check me out!  Another update!  Woo-hoo!

*

The diner Danny took her to was a 24-hour outside of the Bronx.  The prices were reasonable, and the food wasn't bad.  But that wasn't exactly why Danny had chosen it.  The location was quiet and out of the way.  There would be fewer questions, if any, at this hour.  Better yet, he had never been there before, and he didn't expect to return.

Once they were seated, he asked for coffee, and Jordan ordered a turkey dinner with corn and mashed potatoes and Pepsi for a drink.  Danny didn't mind.  It was understood.  Jordan had a chance for a good, warm dinner out.  She would – and should – take advantage now.  After all, who knew when the next meal out would be?

The food reached the table in record time, and Jordan wasted little time in scarfing down the generous portions on her plate.

Danny watched her gusto with a half-amused, half-concerned smile.  "Don't they feed you at that convent?"

"Yeah," Jordan said against a mouthful of food.  "Didn't you see our ad?  All the grade E meat and stale communion wafers you can eat."  At Danny's raised eyebrows, she laughed a little before amending, "No, it's not so bad.  It's not so good, but it's not so bad."

"They treat you okay?"

Jordan shrugged in a classic 'whatever' gesture.  "They don't keep us tied up to sewing machines in the basement with the rats and boogiemen, if that's what you mean."  Her expression changed, and she chewed in what Danny took as a serious manner.  "But no, they really take good care of Jason."

Jason Coliandri was Jordan's three-year-old brother, whom she adored above all things.  Since their mother left them, the girl had taken it upon herself to be his guardian, sometimes to the point of irrationality.  But irrational or not, it was a protective nature fueled by love, and Danny respected that.  

He smiled as the image of the endearing toddler entered into his mind.  "How is he?"

Jordan's face lit up.  "Getting big.  He's almost ready to enter into the preschool there."  She stared forward thoughtfully.  "They really care about him, Danny.  It's a rare thing."

"Well, just remember…" he told her. "He's not the only one they care about."

She snorted.  "Yeah, right, they're counting down the days 'til they can get rid of me."  

Though Danny already knew that the treatment shown to her younger brother had been extended to Jordan too, there was a modicum of truth in her cynicism.  The convent was funded by the Catholic Church, and while its intentions were admirable, the reality was – there was only so much to go around.  The older a child was, the more likely they would be handed over to the government.  At sixteen, Jordan probably should have left the convent years ago.

So far no one had made a fuss, and as long as no one spoke up, Jordan would have a place to stay.  But the convent was running out of volunteers…and Jordan's track record had not exactly kept her off of police radar…

"I'm more trouble than I'm worth," she muttered. "You should know that best of all."

As Danny watched her, he felt a familiar primitive instinct.  He wanted to protect her.  He liked the kid.  But he knew – probably best of all – that in a world governed by administrative laws and regulations, that simple desire wasn't enough.  They would have to have a talk…not just now…but soon.

They ordered a dessert to go, and Jordan wrapped up what she hadn't eaten, which including emptying the breadbasket to take along with her.

Danny left a tip and paid the bill.  "You ready?"

"Yeah," she said.  She tossed him his keys off the counter with a jaunty flair.  "Let's hit it."


	4. Home Sweet Sacristy

Aaaaah, a nice day off from work.  I got some inspiration from the episode last night.  Danny's reactions during the show kinda fit for this fic!  (I was excited.)  Here's the next chapter!  

The song featured in this chapter is by Elliott Smith and called "Waltz #2" (naturally, I have no rights to it, but I used it anyway.)  I strongly suggest that you give it a listen, maybe even while you read.  Of course, I would never ever suggest that you **download this song off of the internet.  **Because we all know that it's illegal to **download this song off of the internet.**  So whatever you do, be sure not to **download this song off the internet.** ;)

Again, thanks to the reviewers!  You make it all possible.

*

When they got back into his car, Jordan carefully secured her leftovers on the floor by her feet.  The Stratus started up, and they were moving smoothly down the sleek roads, when the girl made a face at an offensive rap song that was pulsing from the stereo.  

Reaching out, she clicked a button, and the CD spit out of the opening.  "Sorry," she said, holding the CD between her thumb and pointer finger.  "But if that boy sings one more note I'll have to do something violent."

Danny smirked, only grateful that she'd put an abrupt stop to the song.  When he was younger he'd had a short romance with rap music, but needless to say that honeymoon was over.

Jordan, who was once again half-submerged into her knapsack, spoke in a muffled voice.  "God, I hate Eminem…"

He raised an eyebrow.  "If you hate him so much, why do you have a whole CD of his music?"

The girl surfaced from her bag with a second burnt CD in hand and fed it into the player.  "Oh, you know, my boyfriend's into him.  Thinks he's an 'artist.'  So I'm trying to glean some sort of musical appreciation for his…"  Jordan looked at the burned copy of the latest Eminem CD like it was a strange artifact from another galaxy, before stowing it away in her bag.  "Unique thoughts on society…"

Danny's smile edged sideways, that is, before he returned to the first thing she'd said.  "A boyfriend, huh?  And I bet he's an artist too, right."

Jordan made a sound that was half-snort, half-chuckle.  "Yeah, right.   Aren't they all?"

"He goes to school with you?"

"No, he has a place inside the city."

At the description, Danny became quiet.

No one was more affected by pregnant silences than Jordan, and she let out a tense sigh, before lowering her tone.  "Look.  I know what you're going to say, but it's not like you think."  She stared forward, her voice giving way to feeling.  "This guy really cares about me, Danny, and more importantly, he cares about Jason.  He cares about what happens to both of us."

"That why he left you on a corner in Fairton tonight?"

Jordan shot him a warning glance.  "That had nothing to do with him."

Danny wondered if that was true.  Part of him hoped it wasn't.  If this boyfriend was the reason she got stranded in the ghettos of New York City, at least that meant there wasn't another variable keeping her on the streets.  Danny let out a sigh as he tried to root through his suspicions.  It was exhausting sometimes, thinking like an FBI agent.

"Either way," she continued.  "It's not like I'm going to take off with him or anything.  There's no promises of California…no big plans…no millionaire scams.  There's just trust, and that's something I think I could handle keeping around for awhile."  She looked to Danny.  "I just have a good feeling about this."

When they came to a red light, the car halted to a short stop, and Danny turned to look her in the eye.  He didn't know enough of the elements in the equation to make any decisions for her…and going into a rant about the dangers of dating boys at this age would only provoke her into an argument.

So he would level with her instead.  "I understand what you're saying.  But just be careful," he requested softly.  "Trust your instincts."

Jordan only returned his stare.  "I will," she promised.

He smiled a little and looked away.  "Just remember not to do anything you wouldn't want Jason to emulate.  Because whatever you're doing now, he's most likely going to hear about someday."

Jordan only smirked and gave an overly exaggerated nod at the comment.  "Yeah, I hear you."

Though he had tried to be cool and candid for hopes of a greater impact, Danny still felt that same sensation run through him.  He had wanted to say a whole lot more.  He had wanted to tell her not to let this guy hurt her, even more to tell her to call him so he could beat his brains out if the punk ever tried.

But the light turned green, and instead, Danny made a left onto another virtually deserted back road in the Bronx.  Somehow, it was enough to hope the few words he'd given her would influence her all the same.

Distracted, Jordan reached over with a short gasp as the track changed and turned up the volume.  "Oh, man, I love this song."

Blinking away his thoughts, Danny focused on the music stemming out from his car stereo.  

"It's Elliot Smith," Jordan provided.  "You know, the guy who committed suicide a few weeks ago."  

Danny nodded even though he had never heard of the singer.  Still, he had to admit it wasn't bad... for a guy depressed enough to end it all.  But either way, it was a nice change of pace from the vocal stylings of Eminem.

The girl swung her palm back and forth in a slow, steady beat.  "It's called Waltz #2.  Hear that?  One, two, three.  One, two three…"

The guitar kicked in, followed by a bass, and then light, lively piano chords…

Jordan sang along, lost in the lyrics, as if Danny wasn't even in the car.

_First the mic then a half cigarette  
Singing cathy's clown  
That's the man that she's married to now  
That's the girl that he takes around town_

_  
She appears composed, so she is, I suppose  
Who can really tell?   
She shows no emotion at all  
Stares into space like a dead china doll  
I'm never gonna know you now, but I'm gonna love you anyhow_

_  
Now she's done and they're calling someone  
Such a familiar name  
I'm so glad that my memories remote  
'cos I'm doing just fine hour to hour, note to note_

_  
Here it is the revenge to the tune  
"you're no good,  
You're no good you're no good you're no good"  
Can't you tell that it's well understood  
I'm never gonna know you now, but I'm gonna love you anyhow_

_  
I'm here today and expected to stay on and on and on  
I'm tired  
I'm tired_

_  
Looking out on the substitute scene  
Still going strong  
Xo, mom  
It's ok, it's alright, nothing's wrong_

_  
Tell mr. man with impossible plans to just leave me alone  
In the place where I make no mistakes  
In the place where I have what it takes  
I'm never gonna know you now, but I'm gonna love you anyhow_

As the song came to its end, Jordan sunk back in her seat and closed her eyes, as if the musical notes had somehow left their path through the tips of her fingers to the tips of her toes.  

"God," she breathed, as she broke from her trance.  "I gotta tell you.  I never liked the guy before…  But the music just means so much more when someone's gone, you know?"

Slightly amused by her fervor, Danny gave an affirming nod.  He was about to ask her where she'd heard this type of music, when a familiar steeple ensconced deep in the South Bronx broke into sight.

Danny pulled into the church parking lot, his headlights lighting up an ancient sign that read "St. Luke's Parish."

Pulling to a stop, he put the car into park and turned off the engine.

Jordan's eyes took in the edifice, and then she turned back to Danny with a classic shrug and smirk.  "Home Sweet Sacristy."

Danny nodded to the building.  "Do you have a key to get inside?"

Jordan held up a short lanyard that jingled.  "Yeah."

"Okay."

Opening the car door, Jordan secured her tote-bag around her shoulder and gathered up her leftovers.  Danny looked to the Styrofoam boxes holding warm diner food with a short smile.  A certain three-year-old was going to eat well in the morning.  It was a small consolation, knowing that he had put that simple gesture into motion by taking Jordan out to dinner.  But, Danny knew from experience to take solace in consolation wherever he could find it.

Jordan paused, one leg out of the door.  "Thanks, Danny."

"Your welcome," he said.

She smiled meaningfully.  "I ever tell you you're the best?"

"Just stay off those streets, and you won't have to tell me I'm the best," he said forcefully.  "No more calls from Fairton.  I don't want the next phone call to be from the hospital."  Or the morgue, he thought darkly.

She nodded, prostate from the direct order.  "Okay."  She smiled once more.  "Take it easy, Danny."

He nodded good-bye.  "You, too."

Shutting the door behind her, the girl sprung onto the lawn of the church and up the steps into the convent section of the building.

"Take care of yourself, kid…" he whispered.

When he saw the heavy door open readily and easily, Danny leaned down to start up the engine of his Stratus.

But then he stopped.

A familiar figure stood in the doorway of the convent, arms crossed, looking toward his car.


	5. Sister Rachel

The muses have been kind.  *feeds them cookies*  For they have granted me another chapter. ;)

Thank you so much again for the reviews!  Five for one chapter!  I couldn't believe it!

*

Smiling to himself, Danny stepped out of his car.  Letting the door shut behind him, he put his hands in his pockets and ambled over to the steps of the convent.  

"Nice night," he commented.

Perched at the top of the stoop underneath a yard light, a tersely standing Sr. Rachel looked his way.  "Agent Taylor," she acknowledged.

"Sister," he returned respectfully.

Sr. Rachel was the one in charge of the orphanage program that ran out of St. Luke's Parish.  Actually, that was kind of an understatement.  She was the _only _one who ran the orphanage out of St. Luke's Parish, officially anyway.   Normally, the young woman looked fresh and industrious, like the end of a cough syrup commercial after the once-invalid has taken their miracle drug.  But tonight, all that was put aside.  Now, she just looked pissed.

"Where was she?"

"Fairton," Danny told her.

A small sigh escaped from between the woman's lips as she shook her head.

Danny drew a little closer to the steps.  "She was fine," he affirmed.  "I can't speak for next time, but tonight, she was fine."

"Yeah, only because she had you there to get her," Sr. Rachel returned.  She turned to stare through the door Jordan had left open upon her advent.  "She can't keep doing this."

A frown worked its way onto his face.  "How often does this happen?"

Her tired eyes turned to his.  "Two, sometimes three times a week."  The nun again shook her head, biting her nail.  "I try to keep track of her, Danny.  I do.  But, I have thirteen other kids… I teach at the school during the day… I mean, I try to make sure that she's in classes, but I'm not the police.  This is a school, not a prison."

Danny pursed his lips.  He in no way envied the woman's position.  Hell, he _was_ the police, and even he couldn't keep track of everyone who didn't want to be found.  

He lent her an empathetic gaze.  "Have you tried to talk with her about it?"

"Of course, I've tried.  But you know, Jordan.  She'd listen to a three-headed alien from the supermarket tabloids before she'd hear anything I had to say.  Remember?  I'm the evil Nurse Ratchett, trying to split apart her and her brother at every turn."

Danny took a breath, pausing distinctly to have his words take effect.  "I don't think Jordan thinks that.  She may not like you, but she respects you," he told her.  "Probably more than she'll admit."

Sr. Rachel sent him a 'cut the crap' glance, a convincing one that Danny figured they must have taught her at nun school.  "She respects me as a person, but not as an authority figure.  You can smile and nod at someone, but still not trust a word they say."

It was a good point, and Danny didn't argue it.  "So what do you plan to do about her?"

"Try to talk with her again, I guess."  She smirked a little. "Unless you've got some duct tape in that trench-coat, and then we could tie her down and spoon feed her meals, until she learns her lesson or the cops come to arrest me for child abuse.  Whichever comes first."

Danny let out a cynical laugh.  Personally, he had bets on the latter.  But despite the darkness of their conversation, it was reassuring to see that Rachel hadn't lost all humor with the situation, as dry as her brand may be.

She too laughed, but it was far too weary for a woman her age.  "That would be about all they would need to take away my license."  She looked the massive gray stone building up and down.  "Close this place up for good."

The comment sobered him.  "It's that bad, huh."

"Yeah," she whispered, running a hand through the few bangs that stuck out through her habit.  "It's bad.  It could be worse.  But…keeping up appearances you don't have is no picnic."

Watching her, Danny mulled over the many things they had said, trying to reason through them.  But the thoughts swam back and forth in his foggy brain, hapless and disjointed.  It became apparent that the both she and Jordan had left him with far too much to think about, especially at two in the morning.

His fatigue must have been noticeable, because Sr. Rachel said, "Well… You already spent most your night on my kids.  I won't keep you any longer."  She stepped up to the door and waved behind her.  "Thank you for bringing her back."

"Your welcome," he said, retrieving his keys from his pocket.

She turned back, her tired arms crossed comfortably against her stomach.  "I'll see you in church?"

He nodded.  "I'll be there."

After the two exchanged their good-nights, Danny returned back to his Stratus.  Plopping into the driver's side, he leaned against the plush of the seat, letting it support his back and the scuff of his neck.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, cleaning grit from his eyes before leaning down to start up his car.  For now, he filed all the thoughts away in his mind to analyze through later, preferably after a few hours of sleep.  He took to the road and headed back to his apartment in Brooklyn.  

He had some decisions to make.  A fleeting image of Jordan and then Sr. Rachel stemmed into his mind.

And he wasn't the only one.


	6. Saturday Morning

Once again inspired by another great show.  (Did I mention I'm in love with these characters?)  Here's a continuation.

*

Jordan awoke the next morning to the familiar scent of dust, Lysol, and the week-old lingering presence of incense, a staple aroma that any Catholic school kid could recognize as belonging of that of a church.  She rolled over in her bed sheets, clutching them to her cold skin with a shiver.  

She smiled, taking in a deep breath.  The scent that entered through her nostrils, albeit musty, was a comforting one.  The sensation meant warmth and safety, two luxuries Jordan had been taking advantage of as often as possible in the past year she had spent at the convent.

Glancing toward the clock on the dresser in her small room, Jordan's smile grew two sizes as memory assisted her.

And it was also Saturday morning, which meant two things.  No classes, and an entire twenty-four hours that could be spent with her little brother.

At the thought, Jordan bounded out of bed.  She snatched up the same pair of pants and wrinkled shirt she had worn the night before, brought them to her nose for inspection, and deemed them 'wearable.'

After a quick shower, she pulled her long black tresses back in a ponytail and went to awaken her brother.

Jason's room was right next to hers, with a door in between connecting the two together.  Though Jordan and Sr. Rachel didn't see eye to eye on many things, it had been kind of the nun to offer them the rooms.  It helped a lot in keeping an eye on the little guy.  If he had an itching for a bedtime story, wanted a glass of water before bed, or had a nightmare during the night, all he had to do was take a few steps forward and Jordan would be right there to provide assistance.

Standing in the doorway, Jordan gazed down lovingly upon her brother's sleeping form.   As there were no child-sized beds at the convent, Jason's little body could have easily been mistaken for a stuffed animal or one of the pillows, lost in the soft array of covers that surrounded him.

Often she found herself in awe of how soft and small Jason was, but more recently, it was becoming more and more obvious that he was growing bigger by the minute.  Sometimes she could swear Sr. Rachel put fertilizer in his mashed potatoes.  So awe was put aside for later.  Today, he just needed to get up.

Entering through the connecting door, Jordan grinned as her bottom bounced on the mattress next to Jason.

A tiny groan spurted from the three-year-old, still not yet awake.

She ruffled her hand through his full head of dark-brown, almost black hair.  "Jay….Time to get up, Jay."

The small mass shifted beneath the covers, looking over with slanted eyes.  "Jor?" he mumbled, as 'Jordan' apparently had one syllable too many.

"Just me, buddy."  She lightly shook his shoulder.  "C'mon, up and at 'em.  Places to go.  People to see.  Remember?"

Jason turned over, face into the pillow, repeating, "Places to go, people to see…"

Climbing to her feet, she picked up a toddler-sized white t-shirt and a pair of green corduroy overalls.  "Exactly," she declared, lying them out on the dresser.  

When no other comment was made, Jordan looked over to see the child returning back to sleep.  

She drew closer. "Do I have to bring out Grover?"

And his attention was had.  Fully awake, Jason sat bolt upright in bed.  "No!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, but there was a gleeful smile in place on his cheeks.

Jordan's eyes lit up mischievously as she brought out the stuffed Sesame Street character from underneath his bed.  "Oh, I think I do!"

Jason struggled to climb out of bed.  "No, no!  I'm up! I'm up!"

"Oh, too late!  Time's up!  Here he comes!"  With a war cry, Jordan leap on top of the bed with Grover held outward in her hand like a puppet.  She clutched Jason around the middle and lightly wrestled him, using the faded blue monster to tickle underneath his pajama top.  

Jason squealed, squirming in glee.  "Stop!" he tried to get out between fits of laughter.  "Gotta stop!"

"Oh, no!  Oh, no!  Oh, he's ticklish today!" Jordan shouted back, showing no mercy to the toddler.  "Oh, Grover's got you now!"

"Stoooooop!  Pleeeeease!" he let out, dragging out the word for what had to be a minute long.

"What's the word?" Jordan asked him, hands digging into his sides.  "Remember? What do you gotta say?"

"Uncle!" he shouted as he suddenly recalled.  "Uncle! Uncle! Uncle!"

And like magic, Jordan's hands and Grover gave retreat, leaving the little boy gasping for breath from the impromptu tickling match.  

Exhausted, he and Jordan laid back against the mattress in unison.  

"You ready to get up now?" she asked, short of breath.

"Yeah," he said, still panting.

"Okay." She rose to her feet and tossed an inanimate Grover onto his tummy.  "Let's get you your threads."

Jason popped up in bed and picked up the stuffed animal.  "Bad Grover," he said in a very serious tone, shaking a finger.

Jordan let out a row of laughter, and running over, she held him close and smacked a kiss on the top of his forehead.

After he was dressed, she began putting his feet inside his small sneakers.

"Time for juice?" he checked.

Jordan secured the Velcro around his toes.  "Yeah," she said, grinning.  Letting out a deep breath, she led him out of the room.  "Time for juice."

The two had their breakfast, and like always, their Saturday meal was accompanied by a trip through town.  When Jordan suited Jason up in his coat, she could almost hear the sound of a captain from a sci-fi movie she'd seen on basic cable alerting her of her activities for the day.

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to spend the day entertaining a three-year-old child in the lovely downtown South Bronx area.

Destination, she thought with a smile as they walked through the iron gates that opened to the outside world.  The playground.

* * * * *

That same morning, Danny entered into the office, donning his usual fitted suit and tie… but not the full manifestation of his confident drive that tended to encompass his form.

Martin, staring at Danny with those eyes that seemed to bore right down through a person's core, was the first to notice.  He leafed through what Danny could have only assumed was the paperwork of the day.  "Rough night?" he ventured.

Danny set his briefcase down on the desk.  "What gave it away?"

"Tired eyes, five 'o clock shadow…" Martin slapped the papers down on Danny's desk.  "You've got it written all over you."

Danny smirked, lifting the papers to his eyes.  "Good to see all those lessons in profiling paid off."

"Did she have a name?"

"Yeah, right," he said, bantering.  "I should be so lucky."

Martin let off a soft chuckle, lifting a cup of coffee to his lips.  "Just checking."

Vivian who had been listening to the conversation from a desk away, turned to Danny with an exacting, knowing voice only mothers possessed.  "If not that, what kept you up all night?"  The smallest shard of worry dripped into her tone, but it was there all the same.

Danny thought a moment before answering.  "Family problems," he said, still flipping through the pages Martin left on his desk.

Understanding that whatever was on Danny's mind he intended to keep there, Vivian nodded and to Danny's appreciation, busied herself at her desk without asking him to embellish.

Letting out a breath, he pretended to be intensely interested in the journals he was reading, when really the words were only blurring together before his bleary eyes.

It was at that moment that a familiar baritone caught his attention.

"Danny."

The agent jerked upward in a conditioned alert motion that came from days, weeks, and months of taking head of the man's authoritative voice.

"Hey, Jack," he greeted.

"Samantha said you wanted to talk with me."

"I do," he said.

"Okay."  The two moved out of the common workroom and into the confines of Jack's office.  

Danny took in the atmosphere.  He had been in this office many times before, but the preciseness of the workspace never ceased to amaze him.  The whole room could have easily been cookie-cut from any movie set.  It had the mahogany desk, the muted earth tones, the computer, the file drawers, the predictable picture of the wife and kids…

It had everything Jack could ever need, and yet it spoke not a word of the private life of the great man before him.  

And there was a reason for that.  Like everything else, it was exactly as Jack had intended.

The door shut behind him, and Danny took a seat in front of him.

"What's on your mind?" Jack opened.

Danny sucked in a breath and dove in head first.

"It's about Jordan."

For a man who hadn't heard the name in a year, Jack looked to be the very picture of normality.  "Coliandri," he answered, not an ounce of surprise belying his features.

Danny nodded, only now feeling the burn of the invisible spotlight cover his body.  "Yeah."

Jack nodded.

Danny was right.  They did have something to talk about.


	7. Jack's Advice

Caia – you ask for background?  Bam, baby!  *lol*  Here it is.

*

Jack had known almost the minute he saw Danny with Jordan that there was history between them.

The first time the two had met, it had been a fluke, an accident of sorts.  Inside his mind, Jack gave a sad frown.  It was equally funny and heartbreaking to the man how so many monumental things relied on luck and chance.

Danny was young, not yet an agent in the field.  He was low man on the totem pole for the FBI, a young kid fresh out of grad school, and they had him working in narcotics, mostly running doughnuts and coffee to his superiors.

But eventually, Danny was let onto a case.  It was a simple heart attack from a drug overdose, but the Feds wanted to check out the scene to make sure that there were no obvious leads lying around the perimeters.  The man who died had been Jordan's father, Joe Coliandri, a model employee and loving husband and father, so they all said.  According to the mother, pregnant with her second child, he only used drugs recreationally.  But the ecstasy had been a bad batch - laced with heroin.  Needless to say, his heart hadn't been able to take the pressure.

A sad story to be certain.  But it hadn't stopped there.  The tainted drugs had blazed a trail across Madison, New Jersey, leaving a connect-the-dots of dead bodies, all from heart-attack ODs.  Each death brought them closer and closer to the dealers, and finally, twenty-four hours later a drug ring was brought to rest.  

Being on the team earned Danny a name for himself, and from there he rose throughout the bureau, until he was given a chance to join the New York branch concerning missing persons, Jack's very own.

For most, the story would have ended there.  A tragic end to a man's life brings success to another.

However, from what Jack had seen, it was never safe to assume that things were over, only to pay attention until they actually were.  

Two years later, Jack's team got called out on assignment.  Neighbors were calling, saying that a fifteen-year-old had been living alone with her infant brother for what appeared to be a matter of weeks.  Their mother, Olivia Coliandri, had been MIA since earlier that month, and slowly, the neighbors were beginning to take notice of her absence.  Jack and Danny had been the first agents called onto the scene.  Jordan, upon seeing the two men barge into her house, ran with her two-year-old brother in tow, pent on leaving the premises.

Danny immediately recognized the child's face, and in seconds, put together that she had been the same girl whose father had died years before.  You never forget your first case, especially when it was the same case that sent you on your way to the top.

In that second that Danny and Jordan's eyes had met, Jack had seen it.  That spark of recognition – that instant personal investment.  Even before Danny knew it was there, Jack had seen the whole picture unfolding, and predictably, one thing led to another.  Danny, though he had only met the girl once, already knew her.  And it didn't take a genius to see how.

He had been there himself, more than once.  He knew what it was like to lose a father and mother.  He knew what it was like to find yourself taking extremes in dangerous situations, especially in his childhood.  And by thinking like Jordan, he was able to find her when no one else could.

When the Feds entered her house, Jordan ran to where she knew she would be safe.  There was a small cove outside the Bronx where religious icons were placed in reverence to the Virgin Mary.  Naturally, one would think a place like that would be asking to be turned into a graffiti gallery for the local thugs-turned-artists.  But no such thing occurred.  After a few supposed 'sightings' of the Virgin Mary, the place was hailed as holy ground, and it was enough to scare the local Latino community into leaving the Grotto in peace.

Clue after clue led Danny to the Grotto, and coincidentally, to Jordan and her brother, Jason.  Jack remembered.  It was quite a sight.  Try as he might, he would never forget the girl clutching tight to her little brother, standing in front of a likeness of the mother of Christ, eyes scared, tears running down her cheeks.

But that day, Danny had responded in ways every agent hopes they may one day attain.  He connected.  Though Jack hadn't heard everything he had said, he had coaxed Jordan down from the hill in the Grotto, and he had promised to do everything in his power to keep her and her brother together.  Because his words had been so sincere and because his face was one Jordan remembered, she had trusted him.  It had been exactly what Jordan needed to hear, and somehow Danny had sensed that.

Though none, including Jack, had had high hopes for having such a promise fulfilled, Danny was better than his word.  Nary a week later, he made arrangements to have both of them housed at St. Luke's orphanage in the South Bronx.  Using every connection he had, the paperwork went through, and the siblings were kept together.

Not many cases ended like that, and it was a triumph for Danny, Jordan, and the rest of Jack's team.  Jack had been proud of his agent that day.  He had proven himself in the field and shown him what he was truly made of.

But that same day Danny had broken a rule, and one of the most sacred.

You do not under any circumstances allow yourself to become more emotionally attached than you already are.

Jack knew certain things about Danny's past.  He had a hard story.  But despite the tragic tale, the man did not see the need to use kid gloves when dealing with the situation.  If cases came up that rang too similar to his own, Jack did nothing to deter Danny from getting involved.  Passion was a formidable asset to have in the business of locating others, and he trusted his agents to use those impulses at their own discretion.   

But sometimes, you can't plan for everything.  Though Jack wasn't entirely sure how it happened, he knew enough to see that Danny had opened the floodgates and allowed Jordan to enter into his life.  Naturally, Jack had not given his consent, but Danny hadn't asked for it, and up until recently, there had never been an instance that interfered with his professionalism on the job.  With no proof present, the man had nothing to criticize.

But now here Danny was, sitting in his office, relaying a story about a midnight phone call that involved him far beyond the responsibilities of his profession.

Jack listened to the story intently, all while recalling the history from memory, extracting a file and replacing it back in his mind.  It was standard operating procedure.  Jack was good at things like that.

When the story was finished, Danny let out a hard sigh.

He looked at Jack, palms open at his sides.

"What should I do?"

Jack took in a breath.  "You want my advice?"

Danny nodded.  That's why he was here.

"Walk away."


	8. Picture of Professionalism

Last Thursday's episode ruled.  Inspired me, but work kept this from getting posted!  Here's some more of the story.  And more of Danny's convo w/ Jack ;D

*

"Walk away?"  Danny let out a short, humorless laugh.  "What, you're joking, right?"

Jack's face answered the question.  The man had been known to joke candidly with his agents from time to time.

This was not one of those times.

"So, what?  I stop answering her calls."

"You refrain from returning contact outside of the convent, yes."

Danny blinked.  "Don't you think that's overreacting a little?"

Jack thought about it for a moment.  "No, I don't."

Though caught off guard by his answer, Danny regained his momentum with a sharpness bred from practice.  "Look, Jack, I care about what's going on with this girl," he asserted.  "And despite how simple it may sound, I am not going to just walk out of her life."

"Nobody's asking you to.  What I am asking you to do is take a step back and look at the big picture.  Objectively."

Frustration pursed Danny's lips as he sat back in his chair.

Jack lowered his voice, studying the agent before him.  "Or are you unable to do that?"

Danny let out breath, trying to level with him.  "Jack, this kid is obviously in some sort of trouble.  The last thing she needs is someone second-guessing her when instead they could provide some stability in her life.  Something she can trust."  Another thought quickly struck him, and he addressed it.  "Now, if you think I'm trying to cover for her-"

"I don't think you're trying to cover for her," Jack said calmly.  "I just wonder how seriously you're taking the possible repercussions of your actions."

It was enough to give him pause.  Danny's eyes squinted.  "What are you talking about?"

Jack lowered his gaze and shared a knowing glance with Danny.  "The age gap.  The phone call at midnight.  Picking her up in your car…"

As the vulgar meaning behind his words connected, Danny's entire demeanor changed.  "Look, if you're trying to suggest that I'm even capable of _thinking_ something like that-"

"If I did, we would be having this conversation somewhere else," he returned.  "I know you don't operate that way, and so does everyone on this team.  But anyone else…"  Jack gave a distinct pause. "If something ever happens to Jordan outside of our jurisdiction, you've given them every reason to investigate you."

"Who?" he shot back angrily.

"The cops, the courts, children's welfare.  Whoever is involved should something happen."

Danny's eyebrows scrunched together, and he dispelled a breath of disbelief.

But despite the look on Danny's face, Jack never faltered.  "You took a chance, going to get her that night.  I'm not saying it wasn't commendable.  But, in taking that chance, you've opened yourself up to risk, in ways I don't think you were fully conscious of."

Danny stared straight at Jack, strain tracing a line down his cheekbone.  "So I stop helping her because of what other people might think?"

Jack – cool as ever – continued.  "What other people _will _think.  You've seen what can happen in this business.  What happens when a person is suspected of being involved with a child."  He gave a pause to let Danny remember all the numerous mortifying and dangerous instances other possible suspects had encountered in the past, sometimes from Danny himself.  

"All it takes is one implication…one false suspicion…to ruin a career.  I suggest you talk with her.  Let her know where you stand."

"And that's what you would do?" he challenged.

"That's my advice to you."

"No, you didn't answer my question."

Jack's pause seemed longer than it actually was.  "It's your call, not mine.  It doesn't matter what I would do."  Dismissing the conversation, he cast a stare to the work on his desk.  "There's a girl in her early teens named Belinda Price.  Lives in Cedar Brook.  She left to catch the bus this morning and never got on.  I want you and Viv to go down to the development and talk to her parents.  Viv has the address."

Though upset by what Jack had said, Danny sorted through his personal business.  He visibly calmed and nodded at the given instructions.  "We'll talk to them.  See if we can figure out what kind of friends or enemies they might have in the area."

Jack nodded.  "Good."

With his assignment in front of him, Danny got up from his chair to leave.

"Danny," Jack said before he left the room.

The agent turned around in the doorway.

Jack caught him in his gaze.  "I know how much she means to you…the history you have.  But if you truly care about Jordan, you'll set boundaries.  It's the only way to protect the both of you."

Jaw set, Danny gave another nod.  For a moment, he looked ragged, a man torn between the opposition of his mind and his heart.

But the torn look on his face did not stay long.  Reverting back to the task at hand, he gathered his confidence and walked firmly out of the room.

Sitting at his desk, Jack blinked and let him go.  He looked down at his paperwork and began filling out descriptions, multitasking as his mind stayed on the fresh words he shared with his agent.

Though it was obvious that Danny had not been happy with his response, Jack regretted nothing he had said.  His agent had come to him for advice, and he had given it to him, along with the reality of his situation.  It wasn't easy, putting yourself at risk to help others, Jack knew that best of all.  But there was a time for action and a time to refrain from taking that action.  He wasn't sure what Danny would do, but he had given him all he could.  For now, he would sit back and allow him to make that decision for himself.

* * * * *

As Danny stalked from the room and into the open workstation, he breathed a heavy sigh against his closed lips.  Though part of him couldn't believe what he had just heard, he knew he had no reason to be surprised.

What had he expected Jack to do?  Wave a flag and shout 'Go get 'em, Tiger!'

The image almost made him laugh.

No, he had gone to Jack for the truth, and it had been handed to him, along with a healthy dose of some paranoid instincts.  Though he hadn't liked hearing it, what he was doing _was _dangerous, and it was only encouraging Jordan to continue with her lifestyle.

Danny knew it would be impossible to take all of Jack's advice.  He wasn't built that way.   But through all the warnings, Jack had made one thing clear.  

A talk with Jordan could not be put off any longer.

As Danny stared forward in the midst of his uncertainty, the familiar bulletin board in the office came into focus with a new, smiling photograph in place.

But for now, Jordan would be put aside.  There was a new face in front of him.  She needed him to find her, and as sure as his name was Danny Taylor, he would give her all he had to offer.

Within moments, Vivian was beside him, suited up in her dark green winter jacket.  "You ready to go?"

Grabbing his own coat, Danny managed a smile.  "Always.  To Cedar Brook?"

Vivian nodded, following him out of the office.  "To Cedar Brook."


	9. The Playground

Thanks for all the reviews, guys! *basks in them!* J  I loved Thursday's show, even though it was a re-run.  Danny rocks my world.  But before we get back to him, here's a little more of what's happening with Jordan…

*

The trek to the playground took Jordan and Jason through the very heart of the South Bronx.  

For many, it was not a place to be traveled lightly.  People gave the area where Jordan lived a bad wrap, and they were right to do so.  It was dirty, ethnic, and poor with an ever-burgeoning homeless society to boot.  It was everything a ghetto should be, and there was little room to argue otherwise.

But walking through the cracked sidewalks and paint-chipped apartments, Jordan argued anyway.  The place had something that kept an odd smile in place as she walked down its streets.  Amidst the evictions and gunshots, the shouts and cries, there was culture.  There were family dinners, there was romance, and there were friendships.  People grew up and died here, and they left a part of themselves that she couldn't describe.  In religion class, Sr. Rachel called it an "imprint", a faint voice that whispered 'we were here – and we lived.'

Jordan made a sarcastic face.  But unfortunately, not many who lived there had much of an imprint to leave.  When it came to the South Bronx, there were plenty more horror stories than happy endings.

At that point, her bleak thoughts were cut short by an excited gasp from Jason as they came upon the playground.  

Returning to the present, Jordan laughed at his reaction.  "You ready?"

"Yeah!" he declared.

She shook her head as she gazed upward.  The place was by all means a dump.  The playground bars were rusted, the grass spurted forth unhindered, and ancient cigarette butts and beer cans littered the ground.

But to the three-year-old, the state of the park was irrelevant.  All her brother saw was a playground.

Jordan's arms swung forward.  "Go to town."

At the order, Jason gave a forward battle cry.  His little legs broke into a run, and he immediately began climbing the steps to the slide.

She smiled at his innocence.  She wouldn't interrupt his wonder, no matter how misplaced.  There were definitely worse places that they could be frequenting.  

Jordan stood back and watched him scoot his bottom around the twisting slide.  He could easily go for hours at what he called 'their' playground, as if they owned it or something.

It was all the better for Jordan.  The more he wiped himself out today, the better he would sleep tonight.

She had been standing there for a few minutes and was about to join him on the swings when the unmistakable sound of footsteps crunched behind her.

Remembering the imminent dangers the neighborhood held, her instincts kicked in, and she looked back.  

Three men strode forward, heading straight in her direction.

A fierce look set into her eyes.  Gathering her courage, she stood strong and cold as a marble statue, arms crossed and a frown looming across her face.

One of the men she recognized.

Bryce Layman strolled up to her confidently, a pair of Gattaca sunglasses covering her eyes and a slight smile lining his features.

He slowed his stride as he neared her.  "Hey, Jordan," he greeted.

Her glare deepened, and she turned her back to him and his two silent associates.  "What're _you _doing here?"

Bryce's smile fell, and he tilted his head back.  "Well, that's a nice way to greet your employer."  He patted his lips.  "A little snippy this morning, aren't we?"

"Yeah, I get that way when someone leaves me in the middle of Fairton close to twelve in the morning."

Bryce breathed an icy sigh and opened his palms.  "It happens, kid."

Jordan sighed, upset.  "You know what a dirt-hole Fairton is.  What if I hadn't been able to get a ride, huh?  What if some junkie just lifted me up off the streets like a free hit?" 

He gazed around the playground.  "But you did get a ride."

She made a derogatory noise.  "Yeah, by the skin of my teeth."  She paused, looking down.  "I couldn't believe you just left me there."

"Hey."

He waited a few moments for her to comply, and eventually, Jordan snuck a glance at him out of the corner of her eye.

Bryce reached out and gently turned her around by her shoulders.  "You think I leave just anyone out there?"

Jordan answered with a roll of her eyes.

"I can trust you," he said convincingly, letting her shift out of his grasp.  "You improvise.  If something doesn't happen like it's supposed to, you find a way around it.  You're smart.  That's why I hired you."

Jordan sighed.  He was conning her, and it wasn't the first time.  It always left her feeling a little tired.  "You came out here for something, Bryce.  What is it?"

He put his sunglasses back over his eyes and cut to the chase. "I like the job you did last night.  There's another one open.  If you'd be interested."

"So you're following me now?"

He grinned in his basic devil-may-care fashion.  "It's not like you make it that difficult."

Jordan turned away with a huff.  But though she stared off to the side pretending to ignore him, it was obvious.  

She was listening.  

"What's the job?"

"I need you to make a delivery inside the city.  Tomorrow morning."  He joined her at her side.  "He's a regular customer.  There shouldn't be any problems."

"Oh, like last time?" she chided.

"Look, last night was a fluke. You want to bitch and moan about it, you go right ahead," Bryce let her know.  "But don't do it in front of me.  I came here for you.  To offer you a sum of money you won't be getting anywhere else.  You don't have to sell your family, your body, or anything else, except what I put in those Ziploc bags."  He once again opened his hands.  "You tell me where you can get a deal better than that in this city, honey, and I'll pack up shop right now."

Jordan frowned nastily.  In all honesty, she couldn't tell him where to find a better deal, without including sarcasm and expletives in her wording.  So she kept her back to him, and predictably, her eyes found Jason.  

And as she gazed upon him, her frown ebbed away, like footprints along the shore.  The child continued in his reverie, oblivious to the choices she was making, innocent to the deteriorating world about him.

A few moments of silence passed between them, and looking away, Bryce took off his shades.  He pointed them to the toddler hanging from the monkey bars.  "He yours?"      

"He's my brother," Jordan said.  "So, yeah."

"Uh-huh."  Distracted, Bryce studied Jason.  He smirked a little, glancing back to Jordan.  "Cute kid."

Jordan nodded in agreement, watching her brother tear across the playground.

"Deserves a strong college education."

His words had their desired effect.  They caught her attention.

Bryce trained his eyes on her.  "You do this job for me… I'll make it worth your while."

Jordan's self-control waned.  Though she couldn't believe the words, she said them anyway.

"How much?"

"Five hundred," Bryce said.  "Double what you made last night."

Jordan hesitated, and he continued, "You do this for me, and I'll sort you out.  In a couple months, you get into this business… You could be making two thousand a week without breaking a sweat."

She snorted at the offer.  Yeah, right.  She would believe_ that _when she saw it.

"You'll be in my rolodex," he added further.  "And trust me, when you're looking for money, it ain't such a bad place to be."

Jordan turned to face him and brushed back her hair.  "Five hundred?"

He nodded.  "Five hundred."

She took in a breath.  "You plan to leave me out in the rain again?"

"That was never the plan."

Jordan closed her eyes.

"It's a good deal, kid.  Opportunities like this… they don't happen everyday."

Jordan opened her eyes, squinting up at the man before her.  She thought about how simple it had been, dropping off the delivery.  She thought about her empty pockets, and as always, she thought about Jason and what having money would mean for both of them.

"Okay," she finally relented.  "Okay, you got me."

Bryce looked pleased.  "Okay."  He replaced his sunglasses.  "Seven 'o clock tomorrow.  I expect your ass to be there."

When he started to walk away with his two cronies in tow, Jordan called after him.  "Where do I meet you?"

His words echoed against the cold.  "You know it.  Same place as last time."

Jordan watched him take to the streets and disappear around the corner.  She shook her head.  That's exactly how it was with Bryce.  Here one minute, vanishing into thin air the next.

When she turned back around, Jason stood at her feet, and she jumped in surprise.

"Jor."

As Jordan caught her heart and let out a long breath of relief, Jason tugged on her pant leg.  "Jor… who was that?"

With one hand still clutching her chest, she rested the other atop her brother's head.  "Nobody, honey," she reassured him.  "Nobody."  Blinking, she bent down to take him by the shoulders.  "So we don't need to talk about them.  Right?"

Though obviously confused, Jason tried to please her.  "Right."

Jordan let out a deep, cleansing breath.  "Good."  She sent him a smile, trying to convey that everything was okay, that she loved him, and that she would always take care of him.  "You ready for lunch?"

Jason's eyes widened, and he held his tummy.  "Yeah."

"Awesome," Jordan said.  In one swift movement, she lifted him up onto her shoulders, leaving a trail of giggles in his path.

Lucky for him, she thought, straining under his weight.  She had just the leftovers for the job.


	10. Subway

Okay, another section!  Thanks to Mariel3 and 'asd' for the love!

*

The young Coliandris were well on their way back to the convent and making record time, when Jordan stopped and lifted Jason off her back.  

"Okay, bub," she announced, setting him down on his feet.  "Time to give these shoulders a break."

Jason obediently stood in place as Jordan stretched her back to the far left and then to the far right, hoping to hear a good, satisfying 'crack'.

She didn't unfortunately, but what she did hear got her attention all the same.

Above them, the subway zipped into the station, causing a few droplets of water to sprinkle down on them underneath the black metal parapets.  While her brother tried in vain to catch the droplets in his little hands, she squinted upward.

Watching the subway rest surely on its tracks, Jordan felt the edges of her lips crawl upward, and a light bulb flicker in her brain.

"Hey, Jay."

Her brother turned to her with wide, expectant eyes.

She briskly bent down to her brother's eye-level.  "You remember how we're going back to the convent for lunch?"

He nodded.  "Uh-huh."

"Well…"  Jordan slowly led him by the hand in the opposite direction.  "I was thinking…Going back to St. Luke's would be kinda boring today."

"Boring?" he repeated uncertainly.

"Yeah like…."  Jordan feigned a mighty yawn and stretched her arms.  "Like that.  _Boring_."

As it became clear to him, Jason nodded his understanding.  "Why's it boring?" he asked softly.

Jordan's eyes danced as she bent down to dig through her tote-bag.  "St. Luke's is boring because..."  She grinned to Jason.  "We can go see Chris instead."

Jason's eyes lit up and his mouth dropped open, as if a sparkling Christmas tree had just been placed in front of his eyes.  "Chris?!  We're going to go see Chris?!"

She salvaged two small metal objects the size of dimes from the bottom of her bag.  "That's what our tokens say."

Jason tossed up his fist in the air.  "Yeeeeess!" he exclaimed, drawling it out.

"Take my hand, bub."  The toddler thrust it out, and Jordan took hold.

When they reached the top of the station, Jordan entered in the tokens, and they were granted passage onto the platform.  As they stood there, waiting on the gray cement for the next subway, Jordan found the nearest payphone and slid two quarters into the slot.

The phone rang twice before a male voice answered.

"Hey," she greeted merrily, grinning ear to ear.  "It's me.  Jason and I escaped from our cages this morning.  We were thinking a little excursion to the city was in order…"  She laughed at his response.  "I know!  I'm just chock full of good ideas today….  Okay…. Okay, we'll meet you upstairs.  Yep.   Uh-huh, we'll be there in less than an hour."  She beamed, twirling the metal cord in between her fingers.  "Can't wait…  Love you, too.  Okay… bye."

She replaced the phone back on its receiver, and overlooking the station, took in a deep breath of sooty air.  Still not over the excitement, the three-year-old by her side hooted and hollered, absolutely ebullient about his surprise day-trip into New York City.

Though Jordan kept her expression toned down to a simple smile, she herself was just as excited.

* * * * *

As always, the subway came as scheduled, and after a short ride that included Jordan hushing her brother and Jason asking questions about every building they passed, they reached the inner-structure of the city.

When they exited the subway, Jordan gave Jason strict orders to hold tight to her hand, and slowly, the two moved between the heavy masses of New Yorkers and through the grid of streets that led them to Chris' apartment.

Jason pointed upward the minute his building came into view.  "It's his house," he informed her.

"I know," Jordan said with a special grin to her brother.  After waiting for traffic to pass, the two crossed the street, and Jordan used her key to open the backdoor.

The apartment building that Chris lived in was less than a mile from Broadway.  Most people who lived in the city tried for a brownstone, or at least a dwelling of reputable ownership.  But Chris liked to live on the edge…literally.  He lived above a liquor store in a small one-room apartment with few furnishings, no air conditioning, and a temperamental landlord to boot.

A person would think living in such a place would mean a virtual lack of neighbors, but anyone who thought that needed to have a serious source check.  The building had a hallway that led to three other apartments, all of them even smaller than Chris' own.  Jordan never asked who lived there, and Chris never told her.  But from what he had implied, privacy was an unspoken agreement.

Jordan smiled and knocked on the door opposite her boyfriend's.

That is, except for Tina.

In deference to her knocking, a thirty-year-old woman with bleached blonde hair creaked open the door, held back by a chain.  "Who the hell is…"  But then her bark went short.  "Jordan!" she exclaimed.

Jordan gracefully presented herself.  "Tina baby!"

Tina had lived in the building for as long as Jordan could remember… which in reality was only a month.  But upon meeting, the two had immediately clicked, and for Jordan, that kind of instant kinship was rare.  Since then, they had shared many a conversation, both deep and inconsequential.  Jordan smiled, genuinely glad to see her.  She was the nicest hooker Jordan had ever met.

The chain-lock was pulled back, and the woman gladly opened wide the door.  She looked Jordan up and down with the adoration of a grandmother.  "Well, look who's back," she said, crossing her arms.  Grabbing a cigarette from off her dresser, she struck a match and lit it.  "Where you been, kid?"

Jordan sighed.  "Struck in Catholic-land."

Tina cackled.  It sounded like sheet metal being fed into a cement mixer.  "What have I told you, kid.  Watch what you say about that place.  It saved your little tush and then some."

"Hi, Tina!"  Jason blurted out, waving.   

Tina's face broke out in a grin.  "Hey, munchkin.  Keeping big sis out of trouble?"

"Nope," he said lightly.

Tina laughed generously.  "Why I am _not _surprised?"

Still bursting with excitement from the subway ride, Jason took to running up and down the hallway to release his pent-up energy.

Jordan moved to stop him.  "Jason," she hissed.  "Behave."

Tina chuckled.  "Aw, leave him be.  He's fine."  She took in a breath and let out a smooth stream of smoke.  "You're still going to that school, right?"

Jordan nodded.  "Every weekday.  Eight to three."

Tina's smile was a window to her approval.  "That's my girl.  Stay in those classes," she said, waggling a finger that held her cigarette.  "I tell you.  I wish I had."

A silence dropped between them, and Jordan felt her cheeks blush as they stood there.  Somehow, when Tina said things like that, she found herself unable to think of an appropriate reply.  After all, when it came to past regrets…. What was there to say?

Tina must have noticed it because she quickly changed the subject.

"So aside from school, what've you been up to?  Since the last time I saw you."

Grinning at the opportunity, Jordan lowed her voice.  "I saw him again," she confided.

"Who?" she asked.  Realization dawned on her, and she pointed with her cigarette.  "Oh.  That Danny fellow."  Tina, though sometimes strung out, had been graced with a terribly good memory.  "Seems every time you come over here, you've had something to say about him."

Jordan let out a sweet sigh.  "Yeah…He came to pick me up last night."  But aversion quickly replaced her smile.  "After I got stranded in Fairton."

Tina double-blinked.  "Fairton?" she repeated.  "Dirt-hole Fairton?"

Jordan opened her arms.  "That's what I said."

Tina squinted.  "Chris left you in Fairton?"

"No, no," Jordan cleared up.  "I work for some other guy.  Centers around the Bronx."

Tina took in a thoughtful breath.  "Well…if I were you, I'd be careful," she advised her.  "You were lucky.  This Danny guy might not be around to get you out of there next time."

Despite the conversation, Jordan still had a small smile.  "Yeah, I know…"

Watching her, Tina grinned Cheshire-cat style.  "You like him, don't you?"  

The blush in Jordan's cheeks answered for her, and before she could defend herself, Tina proudly lit up another cigarette. "I knew it," she declared.  "I could tell by the look on your face."

Jordan tried to frown, but it didn't work.  "If you're implying what I think you're implying, you have nothing to worry about," she informed her in an exacting tone.  "I am happily involved with the gentleman across the hall."

Tina leaned forward to whisper.  "Is he cute?"

Jordan swooned.  "Like you wouldn't believe."

Tina let off a loud, appreciative laugh.

But another voice brought their laughter to a halt.  "Who's cute?"

Blinking, Jordan turned around.

She had become so involved in the conversation that she hadn't heard the door open.

Chris Grierson stood not a yard away, watching the two from his doorway.


	11. Chris' Apartment

Getting closer to Christmas, guys! :D  The malls are insane… but I wanted to write more – so I did.  Thanks for all the reviews.  So wonderful to know that this is being read!

*

Surprise was quickly forgiven, and Jordan grinned to her boyfriend, only certain that he knew what a fine figure he cut, standing there in the doorway.  

"We are," she answered and walked up to kiss him soundly on the lips.  "Duh."

Tina cracked a smirk in the midst of her smoke.  "Good comeback."

Chris returned the kiss and nuzzled his nose with hers, causing Jordan to laugh.  "Damn straight we are."

At the other end of the hallway, Jason's feet pounded against the floorboards in a run.  "Chris!" he cried happily, even louder than he had before.

"Buddy!" Chris called.

The twenty-year-old bent down and lifted the small boy up in one swift movement, swinging him around by his waist.  "Who'sa master?"

Jason let out a war cry.  "I'm the master!"

"Better believe you are."  Chris set him down on his feet and roughly ruffled his hair.  "What're you doing here?"

"St. Luke's was _boring_."  He let off a knowing yawn just like his sister had hours before.  "So Jor took me here."

Chris looked up to Jordan from the ground.  "Good plan," he said.

Jordan smiled.

"We took the subway," Jason told him as they started into the apartment.

"Yeah?" Chris asked.

"Yeah.  There were buildings and smoke and people, and they all _zoomed _past us."

"Sounds like one bitchin' adventure."

"Yeah."

Jordan chuckled at them from outside the doorway, and looked back to Tina.  "I better get in there and save Chris from another round of twenty questions."

Tina snickered.  "You do what you have to, kid.  But just between you and me…I don't think he wants to be saved."

Jordan mulled over that.  It was amazing how such a small phrase could embody so many meanings.  "No, huh?"

"Nope."  Tina let out a sigh, moving back inside her apartment.  "If you ask me, Chris is right where he wants to be."

Jordan smiled tentatively while Tina left her alone in the hallway.

She stared back at Chris' door before walking through it.

Perhaps she was, too.

* * * * *

Lunch consisted of cut-up hot dogs in macaroni and cheese, Jason's all-time favorite dish.  Chris' apartment didn't have much in the way of cooking utensils, but they made do, using forks for spatulas and spoons for serving ladles.  They ate well, and played well for that matter, as the two alpha males got into a food-flinging contest mid-way through the meal.

Later, as they cleaned off the macaroni from the walls, Jordan shook her head at Chris in disapproval.

"Hey, Jason was the one who started it," he protested, grinning from ear to ear.  He wiped a wet washcloth across the walls.  "He challenged me.  I couldn't back down."

Jordan rolled her eyes, scrubbing the wallpaper.  "Yeah, you're the_ perfect _role model."

"Kid needs a friend, not a role model."  Picking up the dishes, he sent her a smile.  "He's got you for that, remember?"

"Well, whatever you do, lower your voice," she warned him.  "You're gonna wake him…"  She looked in on the room opposite the kitchen where the child had fallen into a slumber.  Full bellies did that to kids.

Putting the pots aside, Chris stepped over to her and gently held his hands against her waist.  "How 'bout we take a little nap of our own…" he suggested.

Jordan, no stranger to intimacy, shook her head.  "No way," she said, smiling.  "Then we wake him up.  He comes into our room, sees me with you…  You think he's asking questions now, just wait until he catches us in the act."

Chris rolled his eyes.  "C'mon…" he tempted her, dragging her slowly to the bedroom.  "I promise we'll be quiet."

Jordan crossed her arms.  "No way," she repeated.

"I'll tell him we were wrestling."

"No."

"Tickling."  
"No."

Chris effortlessly lifted her up and swung her over his shoulder.  "Trading Levis."

Jordan let out a playful cry as he carted her into the bedroom like a sack of potatoes.  "No!"

"Looking for loose change?"

"Not on your_ life_."

Closing the door behind them, he plopped her down on the mattress and joined her on the bed.  "C'mon…" He gave a boyish shrug.  "Kid's gotta find out about it sooner or later…" He leaned in for a kiss.

Jordan put a finger up to his lips and gently pushed him back.  "And I'd rather…it was later."

Chris sat back, fairly aggravated by her lack of advance.

But when he turned his back to her at the edge of the bed, Jordan crawled up and loomed her arms around his neck.  "Jason's been through a lot."  She rose and went over to where her tote-bag hung on his oak dresser.

"He never knew his dad.   And our mother…"  Jordan took in a bitter sigh as she turned on his CD player.  "From the way things are going, it's not looking like he's going to get to know her either."

As soft jazz music floated from the radio, she sat back down next to Chris.  "His innocence is hanging by a thread," she told him.  "Somehow, despite everything that's happened, he is still a child.  And there's nothing in the world I wouldn't doto keep that from being disrupted."

A sadness set into Jordan's eyes, a sadness that was older than her years.  "I'm here to keep him safe," she said.  "He's all I've got left."

An understanding gaze set into Chris' eyes, and no longer upset with her, he reached out and took Jordan's cheek in his hand.  Linking an arm around her, he led her onto her side on the bed, where he held her in his arms.

"He's not_ all _you've got," he whispered.

The words fell though her like rain, and Jordan turned, leaning her nose against his.  "I know," she whispered back.

Chris held her tighter.  "You know I'm leaving on Tuesday…"

Jordan sighed.  The words clenched her eyes shut.

"Chris, I told you-"

"I know you told me not to talk about it.  But I've got to.  I need you to know… I don't care how far away I am.  I don't know how it's all going to work.  But I don't care."  He looked her in the eyes.  "I love you.  And I love Jason," he said softly and slowly.  "And if that means driving down here from Chicago two times a week to be with you, then that's all there is to it.  I'll do it."

Jordan looked up, searching for anything besides honesty in his eyes.

"I'm serious," he ended.

She stared back, studying him.  "You'd do all that," she said, "drive miles and miles…for me."

He smiled.  "I make a two-course lunch, I pay your tolls for the subway…Jordan, I would do _anything _for you.  I'd give you the moon if I could."  He laughed suddenly and pointed to the CD player.  "I put up with friggin' sorry-ass _Nora Jones _for you.  If that's not love, I dunno what is."

First it was a smile, a sweet smile that melted away her doubts and inhibitions.  But then, Jordan let out a laugh, let it ring out as loudly as she wanted as her bliss reached its peak.  "Look, buddy.  Nora Jones is a classical, soothing artist!"

"Classical, soothing artist," he muttered back.  "Every time you come over I listen to this jazz crap.  Here, I'll bet I even know the words."

Though Jordan sputtered a protest, Chris ignored her and started out comically singing with a voice that she was sure had been outlawed in several states.  "Come away with me."  She only laughed, unable to respond to her joy in any other way.  "And we'll kiss on a mountaintop."

But as the music continued, his voice grew softer, and Jordan's laughter faded.  "Come away with me…" he breathed just above a whisper.  "And I'll never stop loving you…"

As she felt her heart beat against his, Jordan took his chin between her fingers.  She kissed him, breathing in his scent, breathing in everything that came with being with him.

When their lips parted, Chris went back to humming the rest of the verses, and Jordan leaned against the pillow.  As she laid there, listening to his voice and the soft sounds of the city, feeling his arms support her, she had never felt safer.

She fell asleep, leaving New York City and its troubles behind her.  She dreamt of marrying Chris in an outside ceremony, buying a big house in the country, and raising Jason, without having to worry about money, drugs, or anything else living in the South Bronx…


	12. Sunday Mass

Only five more days 'til Christmas!  (And don't I know it.)  It's short, but it's another section.  Hope you enjoy it!

*

The priest's words echoed throughout the cathedral. "The Lord be with you."

Danny answered along with the congregation in one collective voice.  "And also with you."

The priest opened wide his arms.  "The mass is ended.  Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.  Viva en el paz y amor de Dios.  Tenga un dia bueno."  He smiled and winked to the people.  "Have a good day."

Danny smiled back and nodded to what the father had said.  The organ struck up the ending song.  Standing there in one of his more comfortable suits, he listened to the lively congregation belt out Spanish church music as the priest and alter servers made their way down the aisle.  He waited until they passed before he stepped out from his pew.

Danny had been coming to St. Luke's parish since before he made arrangements for Jordan and Jason to stay there.  It was a simple church, nothing too fancy.  But it had character.  It reflected the ethnicity of the neighborhood.  The masses were said in both English and Spanish, and as a result the monsignor, Fr. Jorge, had been rewarded with a loyal and diverse congregation from all parts of the Bronx.  

Danny leaned down to genuflect at the cross as the song came to its finish.  They were a community, and the holy men and women at St. Luke's had worked hard to establish that.

As he rose to his feet, he saw Sr. Rachel glancing over at him from the choir.  He gave her the 'Danny Taylor special', as his smile had been dubbed by Vivian, and she returned the favor, smiling back with a tiny wave.

He had started to walk over to her when a short, balding man jumped into his path.

"Danny," he drew out in a heavy Puerto-Rican accent.  

Grinning, Danny grasped the man's out-stretched hand, and when he did, he was pulled into a warm embrace.  Still looking to Rachel, he put up a finger to have her wait, and she chuckled at him from across the way.

The jovial priest was one Danny knew well.  Though the man had a potbelly and wore thick glasses, you were not to be fooled by his outward appearance.  He was as sharp and quick as he was amicable.  He had kept the church and the orphanage alive through intelligent politics and good public relations.  His parishioners loved him for it, and Danny was no exception.

"Que pasa, compadre?" the priest sang.  "Siempre trabaja!  We are always working.  We never see each other."

"Yo se, yo se," Danny agreed.  He grinned.  "They like to keep me busy."  

"This is the first Sunday in three weeks!  Que lastima!"

Danny easily fell victim to the priest's addictive enthusiasm, making animated gestures along with him. "Trabajo siete dias a las semana."

"¡Me mata!" 

"Aw….Es el asesinato!" Danny shook a finger. "When I die a young age, we'll know why."

The priest held his head.  "Ah, Dios Mio.  No habla.  Don't even speak the words.  We need your young mind here.  You bring life to the community."

Danny smirked back to him.  "Flattery…" he said, shaking his head.

"Heh, heh."  Fr. Jorge leaned in to share a secret.  "It gets me everywhere."

Danny laughed back, mostly because it was true.

The priest gave him a lasting glance and strong pat on the back.  "But I must be going, eh?  Banquets, baptisms, children, weddings…"  He waved a hand in front of his face.  "My life is flashing before my eyes."

"Don't work too hard, father," he warned him.  "You'll end up like me."

"Que?  What's that mean?" he challenged.  "Like you…  Give me your youth for a day.  I'll make more use of it than you will in a year."

At that, Danny donned a disbelieving face.  "Que?  Acerca de qué habla??  Yo salgo, yo-"

Fr. Jorge spoke right over his rant.  "I tell you what.  You and me, we take your pretty face.  We go out, and we get you a nice pretty girl, eh?  Get you married."

Danny made a face and gestured for the priest to be on his way.  "You leave the pretty girls to me.  You have people to talk to."

The priest rolled his eyes.  "Don't remind me.  Siempre.  _Always._"  He waved a hand behind him as he ambled away.  "Buena suerte, amigo.  Be good, huh?  Don't work too hard."

"E tu, Padre," Danny said, shaking his head as he too walked away.  "E tu."

When he looked up, his eyes searched for Sr. Rachel.  However, there was only a void where she had once stood.  His brow furrowing, he scanned the area, looking for her habit amongst the sea of churchgoers.

It was nowhere to be found.

He looked around the church for a few more moments, but then, realization dawned upon him.  Danny blinked and made his way out of the chapel and into the backyard.

Rachel was where she always was.

With her children.


	13. Behind the Church

Yes!  I wrote another chapter!  Whoo, I'm on a roll.  Thank you sooo much for the reviews.  And I forgot to say that I hoped the last section was all written correctly in Spanish.  (Been awhile since high school Spanish classes.)  Anyway, here's the continuation.  This'll probably be my last post before Christmas, so – have a good one everybody!  Share the love.

*          

Behind the church a group of children greatly varying in age and ethnicity played in the courtyard.  Danny situated himself off to the side, watching as they ran about Sr. Rachel like baby pups around their birth mother.  Danny stifled a laugh as he watched her trying to listen and attend to each and every one of them at once.  The children prattled away, all of them wishing to speak and be heard.  They were so wanting, so eager for her attention, and she expertly gave it to them.

After calming them down and organizing a game for them to play, duck-duck-goose if Danny remembered correctly, Sr. Rachel broke away and sheepishly shook her head to him.

Danny smiled at her.  "Reminds me of that movie."

Rachel smirked, pointing to her habit.  "The hills are alive, right?"

He chuckled.  "Except it's more of a Hispanic version," he said, nodding to the children.

Rachel laughed.  "Yeah, except there's no rich father.  And nobody's singing Edelweis."

"No nazis either."

Sr. Rachel stood back to study him.  "How many times have you seen 'The Sound of Music' again?"

"Yeah, you go ahead.  Make fun of me.  I'm not the one writing my autobiography after it."

"Don't remind me."  When Danny sent her a glance, she brushed it off with a wave of her hand.  She sighed comically as she looked to her children.  "It's not easy being Julie Andrews… but someone has to do it."

He smiled.  "You do her justice."

"Ha."  She brushed back her bangs.  "Yeah, right.  Big liar."  Though she tried to play it off, she had been in the midst of blushing.  Danny only took it as a compliment.  Perhaps Fr. Jorge wasn't the only one who could flatter.  

Sr. Rachel promptly changed the subject.  "How's the FBI treating you?"

"Not bad," Danny answered.  "We found one yesterday."

"Where was he?"

"She.  Teenage girl.  We found her in a friend's basement, hiding from her parents."

Her laugh was short.  "Not the first time that's happened."

"No, not by a long shot," he concurred.  "But it was a nice relief.  We were lucky…  She was one of the ones who wanted to be found."

Sr. Rachel had opened her mouth to further comment when she was cut off by a girl of eleven.  "Sr. Rachel?"

She bent down, giving the girl her full attention.  "What is it, honey?"

"Roberto skinned his knee."  The girl pointed to a sniffling boy, holding his knee, which was bleeding down his leg.

Danny watched as Rachel left his side and moved to help the child.  "Ah, Roberto," she addressed him.  "What have I told you, huh?  If you're going to fall down, do it next to me, so I can catch you."

The little boy managed a small laugh in the midst of his pain, and Sr. Rachel lightly pinched his nose.  She pretended to examine the injury.  "Well, I'm no doctor.  But I think you're going to survive this one.  Kylie?  Would you take him inside?"

The eleven-year-old nodded and carefully led him back into the convent.  Sr. Rachel watched them until they were well behind the door.  When the children's game resumed without incident, she walked back over to Danny.  

"Crisis averted," she announced, brushing her hands against one another.

"Looks to be that way."  He nodded to the closed door.  "Who's the new girl?  I don't think I've seen her before."

"That's Kylie.  No last name.  She came in about three weeks ago."

Danny nodded.  That explained it.  Work had mostly kept him stowed away during the time.

"She was nervous, scared, like most of the kids," Sr. Rachel recounted.  "But she seems to be fitting in nicely.  The kids like her."  She made a small noise.  "She _loves _Jordan."

Danny couldn't help but smile.  "She does, huh?"

"Oh, yes," Sr. Rachel affirmed.  "Almost too much.  Follows the girl around like she's a celebrity.  Like it's her job."

He smirked at the description.  "That ought to please her."

"Jordan makes a show of tolerating it.  But you can tell she likes being worshipped."

At the mention of Jordan, the reason for his trip to the convent surfaced.  "I'm glad you said something.  That reminds me.  I need to see Jordan.  I've been meaning to have a talk with her."

Sr. Rachel's pause was longer than it should have been.

"She's not here," she answered.

Danny blinked.   "Not here.  Okay… where is she?"

At the question, Sr. Rachel's entire demeanor changed.  "She came in late last night."  The nun crossed her arms tightly and spoke in a clipped tone.  "It wasn't the time we agreed on.  She wouldn't tell me where'd she'd been… So we exchanged words.  To put it lightly, Jordan hadn't liked what I had to say.  And then this morning I wake up… and she's gone."

Danny's frown turned grave. "Gone?" he echoed.  "What do you mean she's gone?  Where is she?"

Sr. Rachel looked to him, her eyes begging him to calm.  "I already called the police.  They're looking for her."  When she saw Danny's reaction, she continued.  "Danny, I know it's your job to find people, but this is far from the first time this has happened.  Seems every other day I'm calling the police to go gallivanting after her, and every time I call they're less and less receptive.  They're tired, Danny.  Tired of listening to me.  And personally…I'm about as tired of chasing her as they are."

Danny opened his mouth to demand why she hadn't told him sooner when a young deacon broke between them.  "Sr. Rachel."

She looked to him, distracted.  "Yes."

"You have a phone call."

She sighed, irritated.  "Can it wait?"

"No, I don't think so.  It sounded important."

Sr. Rachel looked upset, but then turned to Danny. "Could you watch the children for me?"

Though more than anything he wanted to find Jordan, he took hold of the situation.  "Yeah, sure," he allowed.

The deacon led Sr. Rachel away, and Danny was left as the sole chaperone to the yard full of parentless children.

Standing there, observing the group in their post-church recreation, Danny looked to each of the children's faces, trying to keep himself calm by recalling their names and past histories.  Almost instantly, he made eye contact with Jason Coliandri, Jordan's little brother.  

He nearly did a double-take.  Aye carumba, he thought.  Jordan hadn't been kidding.  The little stinker _had _gotten big.

Grinning, Jason waved to him, and Danny waved back.  A few other children followed suit, some more shyly than others, in acknowledging him with waves and smiles.  Danny waved back to each of them.  The kids knew him well enough not to be afraid.  Danny was a familiar face around the convent.  They remembered him, and he was trusted.

Danny was toying with the idea of going over to Kylie, the new girl, when Sr. Rachel suddenly returned, marching straight toward him.

"What was the call about?" he asked.

Sr. Rachel sent him a look.  When he saw her face, Danny frowned.

"What-"

"It's Jordan," she said.  "The police have her down at the station."

He merely nodded and grabbed his keys out of his pocket.  "I'll go get her."

When he turned away, Rachel touched his shoulder.  It had the same effect as if she would have yanked him around.  "No," she said.  "It's not what you think."

Danny studied her.  He felt his breath catch in his throat.  Only now did he realize how white her face had become.

"Danny, she was arrested this morning.  They're holding her on suspicion of drug trafficking."


	14. Interrogation

I hope everyone had an _awesome _Christmas.  Because I've been working so hard, my family all chipped in, and got me a new… CAR.  *lol*  Or at least, it's new to me.  It's a '95 Chrystler Concord.  Going to work will be sooo much more pleasant now.  I hope your time off was just as spectacular!  Here's the next chapter… :D

*

The downtown precinct was a grid of desks and cubicles, not unlike the city outside.  Officers, interns, and plainclothes detectives navigated the station without incident, between criminals in handcuffs and officers scribbling their reports.

At the front desk Danny used his status for leverage, and he had been dealt with before the general public.  They brought him into the department of narcotics, and he was told that he would be attended to as soon as humanly possible.

However, despite the efficiency shown to him, when it was all said and done, Danny was an FBI agent on NYPD turf.  He was a reminder of past grievances, and service was given begrudgingly.

Standing at that back of the room, Danny glanced down at his watch impatiently.  It was 10:30.  Jordan had already been in custody for three hours.  He imagined her being booked…her fingerprints on record…the flash of the camera against her…the handcuffs secured around her wrists should she get any ideas. 

He tried to shake the thought away, but it persisted.  Where others might see a first offense, Danny saw a once clean slate now forever marked by a criminal history that would follow her name and photograph for the rest of her life.

The image turned his stomach.

Next to him, Sr. Rachel stood her ground with the grace of a queen.  But Danny saw through the act.  He knew that if he had snapped his fingers in front of her face, she'd be a new fixture on the ceiling.

She was what they called a 'loaded pistol' in the field.  She was skittish, and in stressful situations that was no way to be.  If there had been a choice in the matter, Danny would have regretted allowing her to come.  But with Rachel, there never was.  Arguments were about as lost on her as reason.

They felt every second of the thirty-five minutes that passed as if each were an hour.  Danny held back his impatience until he finally gained the attention of one of the officers.

He stopped him in his stride.  "Excuse me, I'm Agent Danny Taylor.  I'm an FBI agent."  He flashed his badge.  "I'm looking for Jordan Coliandri.  I've been here waiting patiently, and I think it's about time you let me in to see her."

A wiry officer with horned-rims scrunched his lips together in a grimace. "What business brings you here?"

"I'm an interested party."

The man squinted sourly. "Yeah?  What relation are you?"

Danny felt his eyes roll as he pointed to his open wallet.  "I already told you.  I am an FBI agent-"

"Yeah, I got that the first time-"

"No, I don't think you did," Danny shot back.  "Because _had_ you gotten it the first time, you would have cooperated and brought me to wherever you're keeping Jordan Coliandri.  Not given me the runaround in hopes I'd disappear back into my office."

"Look, Agent Taylor."  The officer pointed dismissively to his badge  "Take your wares and tote them someplace else. I don't care if you're FBI.  I don't care if you're CIA.  Nobody interrupts interrogation on my watch.  This is a local case.  You want to make it a federal matter, come back with some signed paperwork.  Unless you're a parent or guardian-"

Sr. Rachel spoke up.  "I'm her guardian."

The man looked to her, like he might a piece of dung.  "Are you?  Where's your identification?"

Sr. Rachel dug into her purse and pulled out a driver's license.

The officer held it up to his eyes.

"My name is Sr. Rachel Corrione. I'm in charge of the orphanage that has kept Jordan thus far.  If you'll check her records, you'll see me listed."

"I see," the man said.  He adopted a new demeaning tone.  "And just what does…"  He checked back into the records.  "The orphanage at St. Luke's have to say about children disappearing to collect drug money."

Rachel stood there, mouth gaping.

"Because last I heard an orphanage like yours was made to keep minors _off _the streets, not send them off with a blessing."

As Sr. Rachel's eyes fell to slits, Danny could have sworn the room grew a degree colder.  "Have you ever tried feeding, clothing, and keeping an eye on fourteen children, officer?"

"No.  I'm sure I couldn't," he chided.  "Which is why I have a mind enough never to try.  What kind of orphanage are you running over there?"

Before Danny could verbally attack the man before him, a detective with short white hair broke into the group. "Gibbons."

The officer straightened his shoulders as his superior entered the room.  "Sir," he answered.

The detective calmly put a hand against the young man's back and turned him to face the opposite direction.  "They're finishing up in your room," he told him.  "Why don't you go document what testimony they have so far."  He pointed behind to Danny and Sr. Rachel.  "I'll take care of this."

The officer became the very picture of stability.  "Gladly, sir."  With his new orders, he took off through the station, on a mission to reach the interrogation room in record time.

Heaving an agitated sigh, the hardened detective turned back to Danny and Rachel and gazed to them apologetically.  "Sorry about that." 

Danny, who had visibly calmed, extended his hand to the detective before him.  "How've you been, Frank?"

Detective Frank Sanders strongly returned the handshake and offered up a weary smirk along with his thick New York accent.  "Can't complain."  Motioning them to follow him, he began to lead them through the workplace.  "If I'd have known it was you, I wouldn't have sent over the rook to do my job.  Gibbons means well, but he tends to get a little carried away.  Watches too much TV, know what I mean?"

Danny frowned.  "He's got one charming personality."

Frank shrugged.  "He's a pompous ass, but he's good at his job."  He looked to Danny.  "You here on business?"

"I'm here off hours."  

Frank's gaze widened slightly.  "Who you here for?" he wanted to know.

"Young girl.  Jordan Coliandri.  She came in at about seven-thirty on drug charges."

Frank's nod heightened as memory assisted him.  "Coliandri."  He stopped in his stride and squinted up at Danny.  "How do you know her?"

"I keep in close contact with the orphanage she stays at."  Danny blinked and nodded to Rachel.  "I'm sorry.  This is Sr. Rachel Corrione.  She's in charge of the establishment at St. Luke's.  Rachel, this is Frank Sanders.  He's one of the detectives I interned under."

The two nodded their hellos, unable to be particularly warm towards each other given the circumstances.

"Coliandri was the only girl we brought in on the bust," Frank informed them.  "Caught them at the drop.  We'd been trailing that crew for quite some time, but we were never able to bring them in on official charges."

Danny felt his lips dry.  "She's been officially charged then?"

"No," he said shaking his head.  "The two guys that we brought in with her were, but she wasn't.  The evidence against her is mostly circumstantial.  Wrong place, wrong time, everyone's basic sob story.  I bet my last dollar she was carrying, but this girl ain't who we're after."  He trained his eyes on Danny.  "We want the dealer.  We want the one who's behind the kids, ordering the deliveries."  A sigh escaped from between his lips as he turned to face the nearest interrogation room.  "They've been in there with her for a good two hours now…  She's not talking."

Again Danny's imagination spurred forth a picture of Jordan, sitting in a chair, scared stupid from the threats of the men demanding she speak with them.

"I want to go easy on this kid, I do.  But unless she gives us something, I can't make this go away.  I'd help you out, but it's give and take, Danny.  You know that."

Danny nodded sympathetically.  He knew Frank.  If he could have let her go, he would have.  "How much trouble is she in?"

Frank leveled with him.  "She's only been arrested on suspicion.  If nobody steps in to say otherwise, she'll go to court.  They'll give her a lesser charge.  She'll get a warning.  A couple days worth of community service, and she's done.  Judges tend to be sympathetic in these cases, especially toward kids, and especially towards females."  He blinked and looked to Sr. Rachel.  "No offense."

Sr. Rachel, though upset, put up her hand.  Frank read the signal.  None had been taken.

He continued.  "She may not do time, but her name'll be on record.  She ever wants a job in law enforcement, the government, some corporate office, she'll have to think again.  This kind thing follows you around.  She may not go to jail, but it's enough to make her employment life a living nightmare."

Danny let the reality of her situation seep through him.  His response was simple.  "What can I do?"

Frank's eyes returned to Danny's.  They studied him for quite some time.  "You know this girl?"

"Yes."

"Does she listen to you?"

Danny thought a moment before answering.  "I thought she did," he said sadly.

Frank let out another sigh.  His used a sweaty palm to mat down the white hair atop his head.  "Well, do me a favor.  Get the girl talking.  Let her know what kind of mess she's got herself into."

Danny nodded.  At the simple instruction, he felt his mind begin to morph.  He was no longer Danny the mentor.  He was on police territory now.  His persona had changed, into a stance that Martin had accurately dubbed as 'Cujo.'

"You get the names of who's behind this drug chain," Frank said.  "Things might turn out differently.  You get some information out of her, I can guarantee the boys who brought her in will be grateful."

Danny's eyes locked onto the door of the interrogation room.  He turned back to Frank, steel overlapping the pain in his eyes.

"I'll see what I can do."


	15. Pleading

Hey!  I know it's taken me awhile to post, but between working, the Christmas holidays, New Years, and getting ready for my internship, this chick's been busy. ;D  But here's what's happening next.  Sorry it took so long!

*

Danny made his way through the swarm of police officers towards the soundproof interrogation room with close to a million thoughts running through his mind.  Most of them probably would have been helpful, if his head hadn't felt like it had been crammed into a vice.

But though not many of his thoughts were clear, a few things he could deliberate.  Danny knew he was supposed to enter into the situation objectively, but he also knew enough not to kid himself.  He was involved emotionally now, and Jack had coined it.  That made things difficult.  He was still sharp, still experienced, and more than motivated.  He was still a cop, questioning a witness.  But he was also her friend.  Because of that connection, he would do whatever it took to help her.

He didn't know what that would mean for them.  Only that he had to try.

But as prepared as he tried to feel, when he opened the door, a sadness crossed his features.  There Jordan sat at the gray metal table in her dirty tank top and jeans, eyes red from crying, and a malicious scowl ready for whomever next disturbed her solitude.

Danny had seen traumatized teenagers before.  Nearly every day on his job there was one of them.  Teenagers typically trusted him, and more often than not, he was able to get through to them.

However, watching the scowl disappear from Jordan's face, only to have it replaced by despair, caused Danny's migraine to escalate.

Internally, he ordered himself to focus.  There wasn't time to be discouraged, not now.

That wasn't what she needed.

Loosening his tie, Danny took a deep breath and strode into the interrogation room.  "Yeah, I know how you feel," he told her.  The door shut behind him.  "I wasn't exactly planning on spending my day here either."

It took Jordan a moment to speak, but when she did, it came out hoarse.  "Who called you?" she asked.

"I was there when they took the call at the convent."  Taking a step forward, Danny took a seat across from her and leaned across the table.  "I spoke to the officers who brought you in.  They told me their side of the story.  What I haven't heard yet is yours."  He focused in on her.  "What happened?"

At first there was nothing, not even a flicker in her eyes to show his words had been registered.  But then, her wide eyes addressed him meaningfully.  She nodded upward to the microphones and recorders above, and looked back, shaking her head.  "We both know I can't do that."

He nodded.  "What if the cameras were turned off?"

Jordan shrugged and murmured, "What would be the difference."

Though made upset by her answer, Danny was quick to bounce back.   "Alright, then give me someone else.  Someone who made you do this.  Who put you up to this?"

The whole time he spoke, the girl was shaking her head back and forth.  "No."

Watching her, he breathed a sigh of exasperation.  "You won't tell me anything in your defense.  You can't tell me who you were working with."  He leaned over closer.  "How can I make this go away if you don't give me something?"

"Simple," Jordan shot back.  Slowly, she had crouched over into herself.  "You go back out there, and you tell them that I wasn't involved.  That I had nothing to do with this."

A thrill of anger coursed through him at her request.  "So you want me to lie for you?"

Now, she was getting upset.  "It wouldn't be lying-"

"Well, that's good," Danny said.  "Because I think you've been doing that enough for the both of us."

Jordan's face shut like a car window.  "When have I _ever _lied to you?" she demanded.

"Twice."  Danny held up two fingers.  "Just now when you told me you had nothing to do with this, and two nights ago when you told me you were clean."

Shaking now, Jordan's hand slammed down on the table.  "I am clean, and they can't prove I had _anything_ to do with this!"

Danny's face quickly filled with disbelief.  "Jordan, do you even realize how much trouble you're in?  What these people could do to you if you don't start cooperating?"

"They can't put me in jail."  She leaned forward, annunciating each word.  "They've been in here with me for hours.  They have no proof."

"Wake up, Jordan."  Her eyes blinked at his words.  Danny pointed out through the see-through mirror.  "They have all the proof they need.  You think they don't know what you were doing out there?  You think once they dust that bag of cocaine for fingerprints, yours aren't going to be on it?"

Her face twisted even more as she found herself running out of arguments.

It took all of Danny's willpower, but he kept his face straight and unyielding.  He leaned in closer, so she had to look at his face.  "These are serious people out there, Jordan.  People who could make your life especially unpleasant, if you don't find some way to cooperate with them."

Her eyes went wild, and she jumped up from her seat.  "Cooperate!?"  She was sputtering now.  "Wh-why should I do _anything _for them when all they're trying to do is blame me!  What I need is a little help.  A little help from someone-"

"They are trying to help you.  That's where you're lucky," he tried to make her understand.  He rose to his feet and opened his arms.  "You're not the one they want.  They're looking for someone else.  All they want from you is a simple piece of information.  A name, a face, an address.  You give them that, and this all goes away.  They give you a second chance."

Jordan clenched shut her eyes.  Her fingers stretched to their extent at her sides.  "No," she said on the verge of tears.  "No, I can't do that."

Danny never lost his focus on her.  "Why not?"

"Jesus, you don't understand!  I just can't!"

"I think you could.  But I think you're afraid of what those people would do, if they found out you were the one who told on them."

At that, Jordan's open mouth closed shut.  She swallowed backward, and immediately, Danny recognized the look upon her face.  It was one he encountered often.  It was fear, but also…a strange recognition.

Danny held back his triumph to show only his compassion.  "Aren't you?"

With a sigh, she turned her back on him to look the other way.  "God, Danny."  She sniffed back as her lips quivered.  "You don't understand."

"Jordan," he said softly.  "You can tell me."  He neared her.  "C'mon, it's over.  You don't have to protect them anymore."

She only repeated herself more vehemently.  "You don't understand."

But he was getting closer; he could feel it.  He pressed what he thought was his advantage.  "Just let me ask you something.  Do want this person to get away with it?  To walk away free while you take the blame?  Because that's what's going to happen if you don't do something."  He pointed to her.  "Who are you even protecting here?  Some dirtbag who left you in Fairton?  He might as well have left you for dead-"

It was then that Jordan swerved around and burst into shouting.  "I'm protecting myself!" she screamed.

Danny was shocked to speechlessness when he saw her face.  She was crying now, openly before him.

She blinked, and put a hand up to her tears, trying in vain to gain her composure.

"Myself," she said softly.  "And Jason."


	16. Boundaries

'Asd' – wish granted ;D  Thanks so much for the reviews!  I'm afraid this story has become larger than I planned!  I had planned to end it so soon.  But hey, gotta go with the flow right?

*

At the words, Danny blinked.  "Jason," he echoed, confused.  His frown deepened.  "What's Jason got to do with this?"

Pain swept over Jordan's face.  Though she had quieted, the quiver in her voice remained.  "They know where we live, Danny.  They know about the convent."  She sniffed, pushing back her knotted black hair with her hand.  "And they know about Jason.  When we were at the playground, they saw him there."

Again, he caught her eye.  "Who are 'they?'"

Every time he asked, Jordan broke a little further.  "I already told you.  I can't tell you that."  Exhausted by her display, she let herself slide back into her seat.  "I can't.  Not when Jason might get hurt."

Danny followed suit and joined her at the table.  But where she was calming down, he was becoming the picture of urgency.  "Have they ever threatened you?"

"No." She shifted uncomfortably.  "But…I've seen what they can do when someone crosses their line.  That's not going to happen to me or to my brother.  Not where I have the power to stop it."

"Jordan," he said as he had in the last half hour to gain her attention.  "These people will be caught, whether you give us the information or not.  But as long as they know where you live, yours and Jason's lives will still be in danger.  Along with whoever else is living at that convent."

Her face iced over.  "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Danny said.  "That in taking that job, you've put a lot of lives at risk.  Especially your own."  He sighed, not believing he still hadn't gotten through to her.  "Jordan, whether you tell us or not, people can still get hurt, get killed, or worse.  You've seen it happen."

She frowned.  "Then what's the point?" she demanded.

"The point is if you do tell us.  We can get to them before they get to you."

"Bullshit," she said immediately.  "You don't know these people."

"You're right, I don't."  Danny gave her that.  "But I've seen what happens to people who hold back, thinking they're making the right decision by not talking to the police.  Do you want that to be you?  Do you want to look back and regret what you've done when Jason's life is in jeopardy?  Because that's what will happen, if you don't tell us who these people are."

She glared, her cheeks still streaked with dried tears.  "Don't talk to me about regret," she told him.  "Everything I've ever _done _has been for Jason."

Danny's eyes warned her.  "Don't hide behind that."

"He deserves so much more than I'm able to give him.  He deserves nice clothes and books…and video games, and a place to play.  And a college education."  This time she was the one to point to him.  "That's regret.  Knowing that no matter what I do, I won't be able to give him those things."

Danny struggled to reach her.  "Jordan, he's not your son."

Jordan's eyes couldn't glow, but they held just as much intensity.  "I'm all he's got.  That makes him mine."

He sighed.  "You're just a kid-" He would have said more, but he was cut off when the door of the interrogation room opened.

Swerving around in his chair, Danny sent a death glare to whoever had interrupted his interrogation, when Frank Sanders appeared in the doorway.

"Danny," he began.  There was something in his voice that Danny couldn't place.  It wasn't sadness or exhaustion.  But something that dawned closer to disappointment.

"I need to have a word with you outside."

Heaving a sigh of frustration, Danny reluctantly got up from his chair and cast a glance to Jordan to let her know they weren't through yet.

When door shut behind them, it took all of Danny's willpower not to explode into Frank's face.  "Do you have any idea how close I was?" he nearly shouted.  "Why'd you pull me out?"

Frank's bleary eyes addressed his.  "Who's Jason?"

Danny, who had started out with so much animosity, sobered at the question.  "He's her three-year-old brother.  What's that got to do with anything?"

Frank hesitated and stood back, resting his chubby arms against each other.  "Everything in that room goes on file, you know that," he shared with the agent.  "You told me you were close with her, but you neglected to tell me just _how _close."

Danny squinted. "What are you talking about?"

His eyes lowered, as if to say 'what do you_ think _I mean.'  "Danny," he addressed him.  "I don't know what's going on with you and that girl in there.  And I don't care.  It's none of my business.  If I know you – and I think I do – all you're interested in is her protection."

Danny stared forward to Frank.  "Your point?"

Frank humored him and put up his hands to show he was backing off.  "I pulled you out, because the objectives have changed."

Danny blinked.  "How?"

"The boys we brought in with her are copping a plea," he said.  "There's no use putting yourself on the line in there.  We're on our way to getting all the information we need."  He shook his head as he stared at the quiet interrogation room.  "But from the way things are looking…it just won't be from her."

"So that's what you brought me out to tell me?"  he asked, becoming upset.  "Not to try any more because you're not interested."

"Hey."  The detective frowned at the very implication.  "I'm doing all I can for that girl in there, and I intend to keep doing so.  But if I'm going to do that, I need some respect."

Though Danny didn't like what he was hearing, he realized that Frank was right.  "No," he said, losing some of his anger.  "No, you're right.  You've done a tremendous favor for me…"  He looked to the detective.  "It's time I recognized that."

Frank's features lost some of their severity, and he clenched a strong hand on Danny's shoulder.  "I promise you I'm gonna do the best I can."  He gave him a pat on the back.  "There's coffee in the back.  It's awful, but it's something to keep your mind off this."

Danny understood.  He was being dismissed.  "Anything happens-"

"You'll be the first to know," Frank assured.

Danny's voice was soft.  "Thank you."

The two parted ways, and almost immediately, Danny was confronted by Sr. Rachel, who looked to be about as distressed as everyone else he had spoken to in the past few hours.

"What happened?" she needed to know.  "Did she say anything?"

Brow furrowed, Danny shook his head.  "Not anything that'll help."

She pursed her lips.  "What'll happen to her?"

"I don't know," he breathed, resting his chin against his fist.  "I just don't know…"

It was then, as he stared forward toward Jordan's interrogation room, that his eyes began to blur, and faint, remembered words echoed into his head.  He heard them as clear as day, as if they were being spoken once again.

_But if you truly care about Jordan, you'll set boundaries… It's the only way to protect the both of you…_

As his eyes closed, Danny's sigh drew out heavy and prolonged.

Perhaps this was something that Jack had been talking about.

He and Sr. Rachel stood in contrast to the bustling police station, silent and stationary.  Neither moving, neither sure of what to say.

They waited, through time Danny was certain the officers spent grilling Jordan, threatening things they could legally never do, and sweating blood trying to break her code of silence.

The hours wore on, and eventually, the police went into her interrogation room less and less, until finally they didn't go in at all.


	17. Good News and Bad News

Things are rough for Jordan right now, and I'm afraid they're only going to get rougher.  *sad sigh*   But I _assure _you, there is a reason for everything ;)  Mariel3 – can't thank you enough for the advice.  Your reviews are the light at the end of my tunnel – hopefully near where the ending will be! *lol*

*

Danny and Rachel remained in place, both on the brink of explosion, both neither willing to voice it.  Eventually, he did get the both of them coffee.  Frank had certainly been right about one thing.

The stuff was two-steps-below-sewer-mud _awful_.

But what the drink had failed to do was take his mind off of Jordan.

Danny stood there, tormenting himself, playing the conversation back over again and again through his mind.  What hadn't he said?  Why hadn't she _trusted _him?  It would have been so simple, so easy to let someone else take the blame.  It was that same strength of character, that compulsion to take responsibility.

Where she thought she was protecting her brother, she was in truth suffocating what little chance she had left of escaping the repercussions of her actions.

Danny had done it a million times over, gotten people to talk where they were too scared, too terrified to talk.  It was his job.  It was what he did.  He could make anyone talk, about their deepest, darkest secrets, no matter what the cost.  But Jordan – the one person whose secrets he needed the most – was lost to him.  

He could scream, shout, beg her to talk.  But it wouldn't work.  When it came to Jason, there could be no compromise.  Danny came second to that, and it killed him to see it happen, in ways he wasn't yet ready to acknowledge.

The hours passed that way, with the thoughts circling, fading away and returning back again, pressing the grips of the vice tighter against his temples.

His eyes were clenched shut when he heard Frank's New York accent an inch from his face.  

"You can open them now."

Danny smirked reluctantly as he relaxed and opened his eyes.  "Very cute," he muttered, strangely grateful for the moment of brevity.  With a wave of his arm, Frank motioned for Danny to join him off to the side, and he complied.  "Tell me you've had luck."

"There has been," he answered as they neared the interrogation room.  "Not with Coliandri though."

Though despair broke upon him anew, Danny kept a poker face in place.

"Layman's boys broke before she did."

"Layman?" he echoed.

"Bryce Layman.  He's a dealer, centers mostly around the Bronx.  Uses kids to do his dirty work."

The picture became clearer.  "Like Jordan," he murmured.

Frank nodded his affirmation.  "Where we see homeless kids, guys like Layman see an untapped resource.  Kids are easy to con, easy to control.  You give 'em 50 bucks, they think they're making a fortune."  Frank opened his hands.  "The kids he brings in don't have a name, don't have a family.  And most of them…" The detective cast an eye to Jordan's room.  "Don't have fingerprints on file."

Though it affected him physically, the news was anything but new to Danny.  It was a heart-breaking truth, and one he'd heard before.  But imagining Jordan being held by her puppet-strings, like a commodity, like a "natural resource", made his blood reach its boiling point.

If he'd had a sniper rifle and a fighter plane, he'd have murdered Bryce Layman himself that very instant.

But needless to say, though his gun rested securely on his hip, a fighter plane was nowhere in sight.  So to avoid any unwanted homicide charges, he instead went through the system he had become so accustomed to.  

He looked to the detective.  "I'm assuming your officers take this all into consideration when deciding a charge."

"We do," Frank said.

Danny felt his hopes heighten.

It must have shown on his face, because Frank immediately responded.  "Careful here, Danny," he warned.  "There's always two sides to this.  There's good news and bad news."

He sobered and kept his face straight and professional.  "Alright."  He ran his fingers along his face before letting them fall to his sides.  "Let's hear it."

Frank was quick to give him what he needed.  "We've dropped the charges of drug trafficking and replaced it with trespassing.  It'll require a fine, and most likely some time in community service, maybe a few meetings with some court-appointed attorney… But at least, it's not a felony."

The charge was reason to rejoice, but Danny didn't allow himself the luxury.  There would be plenty of time for that later.  "You said something about bad news."

Frank's leathery face twisted, and he stared off to the side, letting him know that what he said next would not be easy.  "As always, we take these instances very seriously, especially when it comes to minors.  We've taken Coliandri's arrest as a very serious implication of the competence of St. Luke's parish.  I've ordered the orphanage to be put under investigation, until it can be decided whether or not it's safe for children to remain there."

At the sudden news, Danny felt his lips dry, and his blood run cold.  He could only voice his first concern.  "What'll happen to Jordan?"

Frank offered him a sympathetic, but uncertain shrug of his arms.  "We're not the ones to ask," he said.  "After all that happened, it would be remiss to send her back.  We filed the paperwork this morning.  As of now, she's property of the state."


	18. Angry Exchange

_FINALLY, some more writing! Jeez, it took me long enough, didn't it? I plan to spend the summer finishing this story. Thank you again for all the reviews. Keep letting me know how you feel!!_

Danny felt a rage brew inside of him. "Property of the state."

Standing in the middle of the hallway, Frank warningly put up his hand. "I'm not in control of this, Danny. You know that."

He felt it happening; the scenes rushed past his eyes. Jordan's criminal involvement. Her arrest. The look on Sr. Rachel's face as the phone call reached the convent. Jason waving to him. Jordan screaming at him in the interrogation room. His inability to help her in any way what-so-ever. He saw her in court, in jail, in the hospital, strung out on drugs…

Danny's right hand balled into a fist at his side. His knuckles went white. He repeated himself slowly. "You're making her property of the state."

Frank stood solid. "Yes. It's standard operating procedure."

Danny had worked on keeping his composure throughout the entire ordeal for Jordan, for Rachel, and for himself. But as he watched their futures slip out of his grasp, anger flushed his cheeks.

Frank made the mistake of continuing to speak. "You may not see it now, Danny. But you'll be grateful later. This is the only option left for her."

The vice squeezed, and Danny snapped.

He stepped up into Frank Sander's face. "Don't you _dare _give me that load of crap. You _knew,_" he said, glaring. "You knew that if you could get those dealers to sing it would be easier on you. The paperwork would go through. There would be no rearranging for the girl to be let off, and you would take her off the street in one foul swoop."

The detective made a face, like he'd just eaten a piece of fish that didn't agree with him. "Danny, this is nothing personal."

He glared. "The hell it's not."

"It's just reality, and the way things work-"

"And the reality is you take down the orphanage while you're at it? That was extra. That was extra ground, Frank. And you know it." He stubbornly stood in the cop's path. "Maybe Jordan needs more help than I can give her. I can admit that. You did _not _have to go here."

"I went there because someone needed to," he justified.

Danny's face scrunched. "Just what in the hell are you talking about?" he demanded. "That place was built on the faith of the community. It remains on faith."

Frank's sweaty face stared forward into his. "Danny, I have better things to do than argue semantics with you. You want to talk about this? You meet me somewhere. We discuss it like professionals. Not now. Not here in this workplace."

But Frank Sanders had ignited Danny's anger, and once that happened, there was no cork large enough to bottle it. Danny's strong body blocked Frank's path. "No, you don't get off that easy. You started this. You'll finish it."

Frank lent him one last warning. "Don't do this, Danny."

"You're taking down an entire convent. An entire establishment built upon keeping kids off the streets since it's inception-"

Frank's curt voice cut into his attack. "And since that inception, how many kids have been lost back to the street they came off of?"

Danny went to start up once more, but Frank kept going. "How many regulations have been ignored? How many children have suffered from the one woman who refuses to close it?"

At the last comment, Danny lost his breath. A new sensation entered him, and one he had rarely ever felt. His voice left him, and Agent Danny Taylor fell speechless.

Frank's contemptuous glare bore down upon him. "I sent the board to review St. Luke's in the best interest of the children residing there. Could you say the same for your own agenda?" As he realized the power of his words, his voice lost some of its volume…but none of its coherency. "We both know there's been something going wrong at that place for months now. You're just too close to see it."

Throat dry, Danny opened his mouth to say something, anything to turn the tables on Frank's argument. But in truth, there was nothing to be said. Frank began to stalk past him, when the detective stopped in his tracks. His mouth gapped open wide in what appeared to be surprise.

Danny swerved around to see what had brought it on. When he did, he felt his heart twist into a knot inside his chest.

There stood Sr. Rachel, an empty devastated look upon her face. She had been standing there during the entire conversation, and she had heard every word they'd said.


	19. Small Consolation

Now that it's summer I feel like I have so much more time to write. Danny's got himself in some trouble, but when you're dashingly handsome and smart as a whip, you get some leeway, right? Mariel3, your inspiring reviews keep me writing. Anmodo and tyler-t, you simply rule! Thanks for the love. ;) Here's a continuation!

- - - - - -

Not knowing where to turn, Sr. Rachel tore off through the rows of desks and stations, cutting off several people on her way out of the workroom.

Feeling something pull inside his chest, Danny lumbered behind her, trying in vain to move against the current of officers and detectives. "Rachel," he called after her.

She never halted. The nun's retreating back grew further and further away, until she disappeared completely around the corner. Exasperated, Danny breathed a curse and ran to catch her.

Danny ran throughout the entire station, desperate to make things right, desperate to say something, anything to lessen the blow. Unfortunately, he quickly lost her trail to the chaos surrounding him. The agent spent the next twenty minutes stalking around the precinct, searching in empty interrogation rooms and even asking a woman to check inside the woman's bathroom. He was about to go outside to check the parking lot, when he felt Frank's heavy hand upon his shoulder.

"Any luck?"

Danny only shook his head.

When Danny turned to face Frank, the detective was holding a post-it note in his hand. From the looks of it, he had just gotten off of his cell phone. "Word just came. She's going to be held in a placement site inside the city. Northeast Detention Center." Frank kept eye contact with him. "She'll stay there until she goes before the judge."

For a moment, Danny had to pause. He was pissed, pissed beyond repair. But, he still had a job to do. He had to remember that Frank was one of his only links to the inside of the system.

He spoke in a calm, clear voice. "Can I see her before then?"

Frank nodded. "Your badge'll get you in. I'll put your name on the clearance list."

The comforting thought kept him sane. Okay, he thought. They still had a chance. There were things a person could do before trial. Deals could be made. His status as an FBI agent could be used as clout. Even after everything that had happened, Jordan's future wasn't over, and for that matter, neither was the orphanage. Not yet.

His sigh was a breath of frustration. "I'm not happy with the way things turned out, Frank."

The detective's words were simple. "I know. I'm sorry."

Danny's mouth opened to make a crude comment about the department's continued lack of cooperation with the FBI…but he stopped himself. It was far from the time to rekindle grudges deeper than the Hudson. Perhaps instead, it was time to mend the bridges. "Let me ask a favor," he said.

"Name it."

"Keep in touch with me on this case."

Frank lent him an obliging nod. "Fair enough. I'll give you a call when we know more."

The two exchanged cell phone numbers, and Frank handed him a card with Jordan's information. At the end of the exchange, Frank extended his hand, and Danny shook it.

"We'll be in touch," Frank said. He turned around once more to arch his neck around the corner, before walking away. "Good luck finding your friend."

Reminded of the shattered look on Rachel's face, Danny frowned as the detective left. "Thanks," he murmured.

With Frank gone, Danny continued his search through the police station. Finally, in the parking lot, he found her. As predicted, Rachel stood outside leaning against the side of the brick police building. Her eyes were closed and her neck arched up towards the sky in what Danny could have only assumed was a prayer. As she stood there, the wind blowing back her habit, a single tear crept out from her eye.

Other men in Danny Taylor's position would have undoubtedly moved to comfort the woman. However, Danny knew her far too well to ever treat her as anything but a stable, independent woman…who just happened to be a very close friend. Out of respect, he waited a few moments, and then in small movements he reached where she was standing.

"You ready to go?" he whispered.

Rachel's eyes slowly opened to show the ragged eyes of a woman plagued with worry for her children and her home. She swept the single tear back, collecting herself with a nod. Without ever making eye contact, the two returned to Danny's Stratus.

The trip back to the convent was fifteen minutes long. They sat there and spent their time as they had the entirety of their morning. Neither knew what to say and both knew they hadn't the strength to say it. Not a single word was spoken. It was one of the longest car rides of Danny Taylor's life.

When they came upon the convent, Danny offered a few last words of comfort and promised to give her a call. She barely responded. The car door shut, and Danny watched her disappear back into the orphanage.

With nothing left to say, he returned back to his apartment building. Finding his number, he opened the door and let the keys fall with a 'clink' on the kitchen countertop. With thoughts of Rachel and Jordan burrowing through his mind, he walked over to his kitchen table, collapsed into a chair, and held his pounding head in his hands.

It wasn't over yet…but it certainly did feel like it.

- - - - - -

In a small law firm in Bangor, Maine, Lenny Larson was buzzing on a caffeine high. The hotshot lawyer had just closed two cases and walked away with immunity for one of his prize witnesses. If things turned out right, he'd have the third case in the bag by sundown. He was smiling to himself and whistling a tune as he copied the formalities. It was a good day.

Lenny was about to leave the room with his good fortune, when the fax machine next to him sputtered to life. Taking a sip of coffee, he watched and waited to see what information the machine would regurgitate for him.

He immediately recognized the fax as one from the NYPD. No big deal. He'd heard from them before. He grabbed the paper and held it to his eyes.

It was one from their juvenile department. Jordan Coliandri. Lenny's breath grew shallow. Arrested for trespassing in the greater Manhattan area.

As he stood there reading it, Lenny almost dropped his coffee cup. In a dead run, he bolted from the copy room out into the law firm's main office area.

"Mike," he called to his associate. "Go home. Pack your suitcase."

A big man with muscles that belonged to an NFL linebacker looked up from his client's paperwork. "What?" he demanded. "What's going on?"

Lenny shoved the paper into his associate's hand and immediately opened up the screen to his computer.

Mike's mouth gapped open.

"You're going on," Lenny let him know, typing furiously. "The next flight into New York City."

Mike stared at the fax, barely trusting his eyes. He began searching hurriedly for his passport. Unbelievable. After all these months…they had her.


	20. Sound Advice

I sat down today while I was at a job interview, and I outlined the entire story. So I know it seems like the ending keeps getting further and further away, but there is an ending! lol I promise. Thanks again for the reviews!! If things keep going like this, there will be updates like this quite often!

- - - - - -

The next few days went at a snail's pace for Danny Taylor. By Wednesday morning, Frank still hadn't called, and he hadn't spoken to Jordan since the day of her incarceration. His calls to Sr. Rachel were frequent, but static. Faced with the threat of the orphanage closing, she was anxious and short with him. The worst part of it all remained that there was nothing for Danny to do but wait.

Though his personal life was in shambles, he used his professional life as an outlet for his frustrations as he so often had in the past. Danny managed as he could, submerging himself in work. He spent his days searching relentlessly for the missing of New York City, and his nights pouring over paperwork not due for weeks to come.

He remained professional and completed his work with as much efficiency as ever. But in truth, he was not himself. He was harsher with troublesome witnesses. His laughter at jokes was weak and off timing. He found himself distracted where he would have been focused, irritated where he might have been completely at ease.

Those who knew him well knew something was wrong, and his special task force team, whom he spent the better part of his life working beside, was no exception. Martin whispered about him to Vivian when he thought no one was listening. Samantha squinted at him, like she was looking at a math problem she couldn't quite figure out. And Jack? Though he hadn't voiced it, Danny had little doubt that Jack knew exactly what had happened with Jordan, with Layman, and probably with St. Luke's as well.

Through it all, they were exceedingly kind… especially Vivian. It had to have been close to midnight when she stopped by his workstation, exhausted from a hard day's work.

Danny looked up, the crevices in his face lit by the dim light from his desk lamp. "You're here late," he acknowledged.

"Look who's talking," she replied in her thick molasses drawl. "You trying to break the world record for most hours spent in a cubicle?"

Danny smiled. "Nah." He pointed to Jack's office, though the lights were out for the night. "I believe that record's already been broken."

She chuckled lightly. "I'm not far from a bronze medal myself."

A nice pause lingered between them. "How's the family?" he asked.

Vivian took in a deep breath, staring off to the side. "Well, my husband's going on a hunger strike until our front deck's repainted, a shed is built, and the kitchen sink doesn't spew up last week's sewage all over the linoleum. Thinks he's the next Bob Vila or something… As for the kids…"

Danny genuinely enjoyed hearing about Vivian's day. He liked families. Despite the fact that he didn't have a traditional one of his own, Danny had always had those he considered family around him – other relatives, grandparents, close friends… Few families followed the traditional nowadays, and Danny doubted realistically that they ever truly had. However, that did nothing to wane the sacredness they held. He let Vivian go on about her husband and children for a good fifteen minutes, a lazy smile on his face the entire time.

"But that's all that's going on in my world." With a hefty yawn, she stretched out her arms. "And now, I am finally going home for the night."

"You alright to drive?" he asked out of habit.

"I'll manage." She stopped, studying him. "What about you?"

He brushed aside the thought. "I'll be fine."

"That wasn't what I meant," she said, giving him that knowing stare, reminiscent of a concerned high school teacher. She let a long silence stretch out before smirking. "Don't pull the silent treatment with me, Danny. You know I can't help but worry."

Danny sighed, arching his neck in her direction. "I know."

"If you want to talk about it…you know where to find me."

He begrudgingly smiled. Comfort was nice, even from the usual sources. "That I do."

"I know it's none of my business…" she began. Danny smirked; a lot of what she said concerning his life started out that way. "But whatever you're going through, don't be too hard on yourself. It's not healthy."

"And what would be healthy?" he challenged her, if she was so smart.

Vivian took a moment to think before she spoke. "That's something you're going to have to answer yourself," she said in that irritating motherly tone. She took out her keys and turned her back. "You've got some smart thoughts, Danny Taylor. But if you're sitting around waiting for something to happen, the only person you're going to drive insane is yourself."

Whether Vivian actually had any clue as to what was going on, Danny wasn't entirely sure. But that soon became immaterial. As he watched her leave for the night, he sat back, letting the events of the last few days play back in his mind. He took in Vivian's words, like a deep-scented aroma. Danny closed up for the night, her advice fresh on his mind.

She was right about one thing. He was driving himself insane, and he was through waiting around for something to happen. Something needed to be done. Under all the work, all the uncertainty, and all the pressure, he was suffocating.


	21. A Long Productive Day

Okay, next chapter.  Though I do have this story planned, I am warning you that I may be taking my time on the next few coming chapters.  I want to make sure to do this story justice, as well as keep quality control where I can! 

Again, I cannot thank you all enough for the reviews.  I don't think I would have been able to write what I have so far without all your insights and feedback.  You are so appreciated!

- - - - - -

The next morning Danny used his commute into work wisely.  He was feeling better after his talk with Vivian and had gotten a good night's sleep to boot.  He'd realized anew the chances Jordan still had at her disposal, and he planned to help her realize the same.

Danny made the trip through the city every day, and every day the overwhelming swarm seemed to gain two or three more gas-guzzling vehicles.  Driving through New York City during rush hour was like riding a bike through wet cement.  You were lucky to move, let alone get to where you wanted to go.  However, the stressful drive put him in the mood to make a few phone calls…one of which was to NYPD.  He was using one of those hands-free phones, a present given to him jokingly by Samantha last Christmas.  It was one of the best gifts he'd ever gotten.

When the receiver picked up, the background noises of the precinct met his ear.  "Detective Sanders.  NYPD."

"Hey, Frank."  Reaching over to his glove box, Danny grabbed a dark blue tie and draped it over his neck.  "It's Agent Danny Taylor." 

"How you doing?" he asked out of courtesy.

"Not bad."  Danny skipped the small talk.  After their last meeting, he wasn't feeling especially friendly.  "You mentioned something about a clearance list last time we talked, which would allow me to see Jordan before trial."

The detective took a moment to shift gears.  "I did."

"Uh-huh."  Traffic started moving.  "I'd like to visit her as soon as possible.  I want to look into getting her some coherent legal advice.  The court appointed lawyers at juvenile court make Jim Carrey look like a better defense attorney."

Frank snorted over the line.  "Alright," he sighed.  "I can get you in to see her, but there's some guidelines I need you to follow.  These facilities have strict rules, even for cops."  He waited a moment.  "You gonna take these down?"

Moving through traffic lanes, Danny cut someone off on the road and got flipped off by the guy driving the SUV behind him.  "I'm taking it down," he said unfazed.

"You'll need your badge to get in, unless you want to wait in visitor's hell and waste half your natural life doing so.  The facility runs like a women's prison.  Kiddie-jail.  They have menial labor during the day, so visiting hours last from six 'til ten at night.  Anything after that, they'll send you away, even if you're FBI."

Though familiar with the Northeast facility, Danny made a mental note.  "Point taken."

"Okay, two more things.  One…I'm going to write you in as a legal advisor, pro-bono, I feel it's safe to say.  Now, I know you're in your car, so listen closely to this next part because it's very important."  Focusing on the road in front of him, Danny did as requested.  "I know when you're planning a defense, you look for every way to get ahead.  But when doing that, you leave my department alone.  I don't want to hear police brutality.  I don't want to hear questioning procedure.  I don't even want to hear false terms of arrest."

In his car, Danny frowned a little, aggravated by the lecture.

Frank softened his voice.  "I know you're sore about the convent, the things I said about that friend of yours.  But I'm doing you a favor on this.  We go back a long way, Danny, ever since that internship of yours.  But dick me over…and I'll never look at you again."

Danny rolled his eyes, glad that Frank wasn't there to see it.  He'd treated him this way ever since their internship, like if given the chance Danny might single-handedly take down him and his entire department.  It always left him with a bad taste in his mouth.  "I would tell you to trust me, Frank.  But that's never been an option."

Frank sighed on the phone, the whole conversation making him a little tired.  "Well, I didn't get where I am by making friends."

As traffic became more and more congested, Danny muttered a curse, keeping the phone pinned between his ear and shoulder.  "When'll I be on the list?"

"Two days.  Tops."

Traffic shifted, and a two-ton tractor-trailer nearly plowed his car into a pile of scrap metal.  "Hey!" Danny screamed, rolling down his window.   He lowered his voice to normal on the phone.  "Thanks, Frank.  We'll be in touch."  He yanked on the cord and tossed it into the empty passenger's seat.

"Hey!" he shouted at the truck.  "Where'd you learn to drive?  Brooklyn?!"

The truck driver responded with a small blast from his steam stack.  Figuring now that the driver deserved it, Danny leaned in and laid on the horn.

- - - - -

The commute to work set a pace for Danny's day.  By late morning, the team got a call that a young Latino boy was missing, which undoubtedly meant that he would have to return to a part of his old neighborhood. 

He hid his aversion at the very idea with a smoothness that was more personality than any conscious effort.  "Who's the last person to see him?" he asked as he studied the points on the disappearance timeline.

"His mother," Martin told him.  "She gave him a kiss good-bye before he left to visit the local vegetable stand."

The conversation caused him to fall into routine.  Danny found himself smirking.  "Vegetable stand, huh?  Makes me wonder what else is on the grocery list…"

Martin played along, like he always did.  "Bet you five bucks it's more than eggs and milk."

Danny nodded and lifted his jacket.  "You're on."

Day gave way into night.  The boy was found, although in poor condition from the exploits of his drug-dealing counterparts.  He was returned to his parents, and though Danny was haggard and jaded from the last couple weeks, he made it a point to watch the young boy running into the awaiting arms of his family.

Whenever that happened…whenever a child was returned unscathed into the loving arms of his parents, Danny had to smile.  It may have been a tired smile, but that didn't stop it from appearing on his face, even at the end of his day.

When Danny and Martin returned to the office, Jack was there to greet them.  "Good work out there today," he said.

Danny had tried for years to stop himself from putting too much stock in Jack's compliments.  But so rare and so genuine were the comments coming from Jack that it was near impossible not to take pride.  "Thanks," he said.  Looking around, he unclipped his cell phone from his side.  "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go make a phone call…"

Coming out of the break room just in time to hear the comment, Samantha's smile edged to the side.  "Girlfriend?"

"Yup."

She almost dropped her coffee mug.  "Really?!"

Danny turned around.  "Gotcha." 

Dodging a sugar packet she threw at him, he disappeared out of the room and into one of the conference rooms held off to the side. 

Letting out the door swing shut behind him, Danny dropped down into one of the plush swiveling chairs.  The conference rooms in the Missing Persons Unit were designed with muted colors and simple furnishings.  During their working hours, they dealt with people under enormous stress.  Distraught families, suicidal teenagers, sleazy businessmen, kidnappers… The rooms had been constructed with their clients in mind, to keep an atmosphere that would help them keep their composure. 

But even with the professional motif and the familiarity of the room, Danny felt ill at ease.  He had gone all day, being completely professional and completely in control his surroundings.  Only now in the sudden quiet of the empty conference room was he hit with the weight of his troubles.  Danny took a few seconds to keep his emotions in check and to mentally gather a plan of action.  He had already called Frank and set up an appointment with Jordan.

But Frank wasn't the one he wanted to call.  He hit speed-dial.  He listened to the phone ring at its usual location and hoped that Sr. Rachel would be there to pick it up.


	22. Never Better

Sorry, guys. I'm planning for Taiwan (I got hired there as a teacher!), and I'm working on moving to D.C. lol Excuses, excuses, I know. But here's another chapter. Slowly this story will be completed!

- - - - -

Sr. Rachel expelled a sigh as she plopped down in a chair at the convent's small kitchen table. She removed her habit from her head to let her short locks of brown hair rest upon her shoulders. And finally her limbs relaxed, weak after a full day's use. They had awoken the children, cooked their meals for the day, chased them around the playground, chased them around the classroom, wiped their noses, cleaned their faces, scolded them for failing to brush their teeth, and then her limbs had tucked them quietly in to sleep. Her arms sagged at her sides, wonderfully useless.

Normally after a long day of teaching and nurturing, there was a smile on her face. But not tonight. Bags hung under her eyes, her body robbed of sleep since Jordan had been taken into custody. Things had been bad at the orphanage before Jordan's encounter with the NYPD, but now matters were worse.

The beeping microwave shirked her from her thoughts. Crawling back up to her feet, she opened the microwave door and unwrapped a Tupperware container. Her body had been bothering her for food, and she had reluctantly obliged. However, when she looked down at the reheated meatloaf and potatoes, she made a face.

Sr. Rachel rolled her eyes at herself. Must eat, can't eat… _Fuck it, _she thought and poured the food unceremoniously down the garbage disposal. No matter how her body needed it, she was so sick from the past couple days that the very thought of eating turned her stomach.

It was then as she stood there, staring at the remains of her uneaten dinner, that the phone rang beside her. Frowning, Sr. Rachel looked to the clock. It was past ten. Curiosity and her last bit of strength picked up the receiver.

"Sr. Rachel Corrione," she answered, voice drained of energy. "St. Luke's Parish."

"Hey," a familiar voice greeted, equally exhausted.

Danny Taylor. "Hey."

"I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No. I've been up since this morning." Her voice became pointed. "What're you doing calling?"

"Um, I dunno," he admitted. "Hoping to hear some good news, I guess."

She made a derogatory sound. "You called the wrong place for that."

"Ha ha," he said, but there was no humor in his voice. They were past humor by this stage. "I just wanted to see how you were."

Sr. Rachel wasn't entirely certain what brought it on. Maybe it was the way he had asked the question, so simply, so casually. Maybe it was the fact that he was calling so late. Or maybe she was so tired, so ridiculously tired of it all, that she would have taken any excuse in the world, even a five second conversation to say what was truly on her mind. But whatever the reason, bitterness swiftly possessed her voice. "Yeah," she spit the word out. "Like anyone actually wants to know how I am."

Even across the phone line, she could detect the hurt in Danny's tone. "What? Oh, c'mon, Rachel. Why would I even ask if I didn't-"

But his pleadings only made it worse. She was losing control. On the other end, she shook with something akin to anger. "No, just save it," she shot back at him, her biting tone cutting him off. "Every single day every single person that walks through this convent asks how I'm doing. And you know what I tell them? I tell them I'm _fine._ I tell them I'm perfectly fine, that I couldn't be better. And you know why I tell them that? Because that's exactly what they want to hear. So they can go about their day and put their minds at ease."

There was a long pause as Danny took in her words. "I didn't call to make you angry," he told her, his voice made all the more sincere by its fatigue. "And I didn't call you to hear some invention about how happy you are with your life. I called you because I want to know how you are. Not what you think I want to hear about how you are."

Sr. Rachel sucked in a sob and held it back. He meant what he said. Knowing that she was on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown, she turned on her defense mechanisms. In practiced motions, she bottled everything inside of her threatening to burst. She pushed it down, deep down until she could speak in a clear, business voice.

Danny made the mistake of continuing to talk. "Rachel, I know you think you're going through this alone, but you're not. I'm going through it, too. You think I don't feel it? The waiting kills me, too. I understand-"

Her voice was the coldest contrast. "No, you don't," she told him. "You always think you know, Danny. But you don't."

Her words were harsh, and soon he became just as angry. Later Rachel would realize that maybe she had wanted it, for someone to be just as hurt and upset as she was. "And why wouldn't I?" he demanded hotly. "Oh, because I'm not there, right?"

"That's part of it."

"And what's the other part? Because I couldn't get her out? Because I wasn't there the night it all happened? Is that it?"

"I never said that."

"Yeah, looks like you didn't need to." He sighed, furious…but then, he quickly became devoid of anything but exhaustion. "Christ… I only called to see how you were."

"I'm fine," she said, embittered. "Never better…"

"Rachel."

"I have to go." He said her name again with more urgency, and the sister deliberately set the phone down on the receiver, successfully shutting him out. In the deafening silence of the convent, Sr. Rachel put her head in her hand. She started to cry ever so quietly, but then stopped herself. It was stupid, silly. Why should she cry over one phone call? One stupid phone call that didn't matter at all.

_You're stupid, Rachel, _she told herself. _Stupid for even answering that phone when you knew it would be him._

Collecting herself and forcing herself to get under control, she shook away the resentful feelings. Running a hand through her brown hair, she took a deep breath and started cleaning up the dishes. She began to calm. Routine set in, and any irritation slowly began to fade. She scrubbed the dishes, cleaned the kitchen, and shut the lights out for the night.

She summoned other thoughts to keep her emotions at bay. It wouldn't be smart to stay up much longer. She thought of the children. She would have to wake up early. Putting things into perspective, she had resolved to check her email before going to bed, when a scuffling sound caused her to stop in her tracks.

The sound didn't alarm her. At any orphanage, a lot of tossing and turning took place during the night. She wondered which of the children had left their beds, and what bad dream or midnight snack was keeping them up this time.

"Who's that in my kitchen?" she asked in her best authoritative voice.

The noise stopped all together.

Sr. Rachel rolled her eyes and traipsed back into the room. "No sense in hiding," she said, semi-playfully. "You're caught." She flicked on the light.

Only a spotless kitchen remained, not a fork or spoon out of place.

Now she could feel it, a knot in her chest. "Kylie?" she called, hopefully. "Is that you?"

Nervously, she looked around the corner, searching for any sign of… And then, she saw it. Footprints, black with mud from outside.

Sr. Rachel raked in a gasp, and then…gave a cry of pain.

Behind her, the blunt of a handgun soundly struck her head. Colors swirled before her eyes. So heavy was the blow that the nun was unconscious before she even hit the ground.

- - - - - -

"Rachel," Danny intoned. "Rachel."

She hung up on him.

Muttering, he let the phone clamor onto the desk. Dammit, why did she always balk? Why did she always close like a safe the minute he got too close? Alone in the conference room, he held a hand over his eyes. Just like that, the desperation overtook him. What he had at one point kept in perfect control began to unravel. He thought about Jordan, about the possibility of never getting her out of jail. He thought about the orphanage…and how from the look of things it would not stay open past New Years. He thought about how lonely his life had become. He thought about Rachel, and the nasty way she had dealt with him over the phone. Like he was a stranger. No worse than a stranger, an annoyance.

Danny was forgetting. He was forgetting about the child that had been found earlier that day, about his ever-growing support group, about the good things that had happened in his life.

He could have gone to see anyone on the team that night, Vivian, Samantha, Jack or even Martin, and they would have listened to him talk about his problems. Instead, he left the conference room and gathered his jacket and keys.

Samantha was still drinking her coffee. "Heading out?"

"Yeah," Danny said, walking past her. "G'night, Sam."

She arched her neck, watching him in concern. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah." He kept his back turned to her. "Never better…"


	23. Old Habits Die Hard

Where I found the time to write, I can't even tell you. But another chapter is done! Please R&R. Thanks to Mariel and anmodo! I'm thankful for such encouragement! You are my inspiration.

- - - - - -

Danny had given up drinking a long time ago when it came to solving his problems. It was a weak-willed habit that only left him embarrassed and filled with regret the following morning. He had promised himself not to use alcoholism as an outlet no matter what path his life took. No matter how bad things seemed, there was always a better way to deal with the problem.

To tell the truth he hadn't even planned it. He had left the office and gotten into his car with the intention of going home for the evening. But as any counselor Danny had talked to over the past few years would have told him, old habits die hard.

Danny walked into the bar called 'Senuna's' located a few blocks from work, which many fellow drinkers found was very hard to pronounce when drunk. It was a sports bar, normally heavily populated during the weekends or on a game night. However, on a Monday night outside football season its customers were sparse.

Tony Barsotti, a young grad student at NYU, was cleaning glasses when Danny plopped down at one of the bar stools. "Hey, Dan." He looked him up and down. "You look like hell."

"Thanks."

"Where's your date tonight?"

Normally, Danny would have smirked. Though everyone teased him, it was true…he usually did have a date with him. "With all the others, I suppose."

Tony snickered, putting down the glass with a 'clink.' Tony had known Danny since he moved to New York to study biology. On game nights they often got into heated debates, ranging from whether cloning and abortions were morally sound…to who was the better team: the Yanks or the Red Sox. The two got along fairly well, even though Tony was a Boston boy.

But tonight, Danny wasn't in the mood for conversation.

"You meeting anybody?" Tony asked.

"No."

"Jesus, then why're you here? The atmosphere?"

"Who are you? My mother?"

Noting the irritation in his voice, Tony laid off. "Most certainly not." He turned around. "What'll it be?"

"Whiskey. Straight up." Tony turned around to pour him a glass of Jack Daniels. It only took Danny a few moments before the glass was once again empty.

"Whoa," Tony said somewhat softly. He watched him carefully. "Thought you were off the sauce."

Danny sent him a warning glance. "Just leave the bottle."

Though Tony didn't like what he was seeing, he had unpaid graduate school bills in a pile on his desk. He did as Danny requested, allowing the FBI agent to become as drunk as he pleased. And he did. Danny was miserable…and right now, alcohol seemed as good a solution as any other. Pouring himself a second and third glass, he guzzled down its contents until he felt his problems ebbing away. Until there was nothing left to do but drown in the hard, mind-numbing liquor.

But something happened that the agent didn't plan. Danny had lost many things over the past few months, and one of them was his tolerance. Barely an hour had passed before he began to sweat from the alcohol coursing through his veins.

Noticing the agent's red face and leaking skin, Tony nodded to him. "You alright there, man?"

"Yeah," he drawled out. He cackled and loosened his tie, as if he'd just thought of something very funny. "Never better."

Tony eyed him. "Oh, I don't know. I think I've seen you a little better than this."

There was no hiding it now. Danny was obliterated. "You're right," he said drunkenly. "I have been better than this. A lot better. I just can't quite remember what it felt like."

Tony watched him carefully, like he did most of the partisans that drank more than they could stomach. He knew Danny. He liked him…but he didn't want to keep watching him do this to himself. He started to reach over. "That's it," he said. "It's bedtime for you. I'm cutting you off."

Danny glowered and held the bottle back, just daring him to try to take it from him.

Noticing how foreboding Danny could look when determined to keep what was his, Tony backed away and put up his hands. "You're right, man," he murmurred, turning around to wipe down the bar. "I'm not your mother."

Visibly calming, Danny replaced the bottle back on the bar. After a few minutes passed, he spoke. "I gave it up at one point…" He pointed to the bottle, as if Tony didn't know. "The booze."

Tony shook his head at him. "I know, man… I know."

Danny sighed, his hair uncombed, his clothes disheveled. "Not anymore apparently…" Looking up with bloodshot eyes, he pointed to the Jack Daniels' label and began to snicker. "You know, I work for a guy named Jack." He kicked back the last of the whiskey. "He doesn't come in a bottle though…"

Danny stayed until closing time, drinking himself into oblivion. Once the bar doors closed, he left a wad of money on the counter and staggered out into the street. He ambled around for awhile, uncertain as to where he was going but certain that he had little idea as to where he would stop.

Though he was standing upright, it wasn't long before his body shut down. He felt his legs buckle underneath of him, and he blacked out right there on the sidewalk. Danny didn't panic though. Something told him that the ground would catch his fall

- - - - - -

At that same time in an abandoned warehouse in Long Island, Chris Grierson was making his rounds. A strong sense of paranoia kept him walking at a steady even pace, his eyes shifting from side to side. He couldn't believe how quickly the fog had rolled into place. He looked suspicious enough, out alone trespassing, pants bulging from the weight of his piece, _without_ pea soup clouding the air.

Chris stalked through the fog until a familiar face appeared alongside the warehouse. One of his regular movers gave him a nod.

Chris managed a smile.

Gary, a man in his late thirties, was about as hardened as you could get. He'd been in the dealing business since he could count kilos. There were rumors that he was so quick with a knife that you didn't have a chance to scream. He had a tattoo of a snake around his neck; he didn't shave, and Chris was almost certain that 'Gary' was as much his name as he was a circus monkey.

Despite his reputation, Chris had always found him decent. Not to mention he was the best mover in all of the Big Apple. Chris had done a lot of freelance work for him, and the man owed him a favor. That was why he had called upon him tonight.

Gary's deep voice was also enough to make your skin curl. He nodded to Chris as he drew nearer. "Thought you were leaving town."

"Plans change." Chris took out a pack of Lucky Strikes. He offered him one, but Gary turned it down.

"What do you need?"

"A job. A quick one that pays."

Gary thought for a moment. "I could always use another guy." He squinted at him suspiciously. "Why the sudden interest?"

"I'm still leaving town, just not as soon as I'd planned. I want some traveling money."

Gary was a hard man to read, but from the looks of it, he didn't exactly trust what Chris was saying. Chris understood. Had he been in Gary's situation, he'd be thinking the same thing. "What do I get in return?"

There it was. Always a dealer. But this was where Chris was prepared. "Connections, all the way to Chicago."

"Already got connections in Chicago."

"Not the ones I'm gonna get," Chris shot back confidently. Gary studied him. Chris kept a straight face. "I'm going full-time."

"Yeah, for who?"

"You're lookin' at him."

Gary made a face. "You taking stupid pills?"

"No," Chris said, releasing a stream of smoke from between his lips. "Just desperate."

The word sparked something in Gary. Not that he had suddenly turned into a teddy bear; it was just that desperate had been Gary's friend for as long as he could remember. Desperate people could be manipulated. Desperate paid the bills. Desperate kept the furniture in his house. Desperate was what he wanted to hear. "What're you doing tomorrow?"

Chris' eyes went wide. "You're kidding me."

The look on Gary's face made it clear. The man did not kid.

"Okay." Chris offered his hand, which Gary shook. "What time?"

"Seven. Evening. Bring a raincoat." Turning back to his car, he pointed to Chris' pants. "And find a better way to hide that piece of shit. Makes you look like a moron."

Patting his lips, Chris Grierson watched as Gary's truck started and left him alone by the warehouse. He finished his cigarette and headed back to his car. He still had a long night ahead of him.


	24. I can find them

I apologize for the wait, but this chapter kept me up many a night. And now to respond!

Anmodo – thank you for reviewing so fast! And as for the angst… anytime ;)  
  
T-Tyler - Haha, thanks! Sorry I couldn't post as quickly!

Mariel3 – Ah, well, some sentences come out better than others. Glad you liked the last one better than the first! lol I shall keep writing, have no fears! You're very talented when it comes to grammar…. If you're ever open to beta-ing, let me know. I definitely need one for this story.

- - - - -

A ringing telephone propelled Danny out of his drunken slumber. He held his head in his hand, feeling as though he were still swimming underneath a river of booze. He could certainly smell it… as well as the light scent of perfume, which was odd considering that there was no lovely woman lying beside him. Groaning fitfully, he reached over and padded the dresser in hopes of coming across his cell phone. When his sense of touch failed him, he opened his bleary eyes and looked around.

He was in his bedroom in his apartment. Though foggy, his memory slowly began to assist him. He gradually remembered the drinking, the Jack Daniels, Tony's attempts to curb his alcoholism… Terribly confused as to how he'd gotten home and into his bed, he noticed his chest was bare and he was still wearing his pants from last night. His shirt and tie were slung over the La-Z-boy in his bedroom, and his shoes were on the floor beside them.

But there was little time to contemplate. Climbing to his aching feet, Danny found his cell phone beside his tie and answered it on the last ring.

His voice sounded like it had been put through a meat grinder. "Agent Taylor."

"Danny. It's Frank."

Falling back down on top of his rumpled bedcovers, Danny held the space between his eyes between his fingers. It felt like a gigantic bubble of alcohol had become lodged inside his skull. "Frank, it's…" He leaned over to check the clock. "It's six a.m…" Danny realized. "What're you doing calling me?"

"I know. I wouldn't have called you if it wasn't important." There was a pause, and Frank cynically asked. "Rough night last night?"

"Is it public knowledge already?"

"Call it a lucky guess." The air over the phone was quiet; Danny guessed he was calling from home. "You read the paper yet this morning?"

"I haven't had the luxury." His headache bombarded at full force as he made his way through his disordered apartment. "Did my night make the front page?"

"No…" Frank said. "Someone else's did." Danny unlocked a series of locks on his apartment door and grabbed two fresh-printed newspapers off of the ground.

Danny frowned, holding the cell phone between his shoulder and ear. "Times or Post?"

"Times."

Grumbling, he let the Post slap back onto the ground and opened the Times to the front page. "President Bush Cites 'Personal Reasons' in Announcement." He groaned. "If you called me at six in the morning to discuss politics, I'm going to make you very uncomfortable next we meet."

"Dig deeper," Frank said. "Try page C12… New York Region."

Doing as requested, Danny leafed through the paper while walking inside to his kitchen. He scanned the headlines and was about to put down the Times, when an article towards the bottom caught his eyes.

'Juvenile Escapes from Northeast Detention Facility'

Just like that, he sobered. With wide eyes Danny slammed the paper down on the table. Though unable to take in the entire article in one glance, one very familiar name stood out amongst the paragraphs.

Jordan Coliandri.

Danny groaned, shaking his head. "Oh, no…"

"Oh, yes," Frank said. "By midnight last night she was out of there."

He couldn't seem to read the paper fast enough. "What happened?" he demanded, his voice growing louder. "How'd she get out? Where is she?"

"They don't know how she got out," Frank said slowly. "And they don't know where she took off to."

Though terribly hung over from the night before, he forced himself to focus. His drunken stance disappeared. His voice changed. Now, he was only interested in hearing the facts. "It's been six hours," he said, all business. "There's not many places she could go without someone noticing her." A sudden thought hit him. "She'd never go anywhere without Jason. Get your men to St. Luke's. That's where she'll be."

There was a short pause before Frank said, "Keep reading."

His brow furrowing, Danny furiously searched through the paper, fearing what he might uncover, but knowing he needed to find it. He was about to ask Frank to clarify what he meant by that, when an article on the following page stuck out through the others.

'Child Abducted from St. Luke's Orphanage' and in small print beneath that 'Local Caretaker Attacked'.

Jason. Danny breathed an angry growl. Dammit, the kid was gone, too. But then he responded to the sentence beneath. Local caretaker… "Rachel," he got out.

"She'll be fine," Frank said. "If you keep reading the article, you'll see that she's being released as early as this morning. One of the kids found her, lying on the floor unconscious. She took a good punch over the head, but it's nothing that won't heal."

Danny fell down into one of the chairs at his table, blank and deflated, barely believing what he was hearing. He stared at the articles. It was like a nightmare, some sort of bad dream that he had yet to wake up from. The emotions hit him all at once. First it was anger, a blinding anger that made him want to hunt down and murder those responsible to get back the ones he loved. Second came the sadness, the misery that sucker-punched you in the stomach and clouded in your mind. Third came the fear. The fear that they might never be found…that someone, something had already taken their lives forever.

Danny found it horrifying…and humbling to think that this was what the people he dealt with felt and experienced every day.

But then lastly as he sat there taking it all in, a final emotion surfaced, diminishing the rest. He looked up, eyes and face holding nothing but determination.

"I can find them," he whispered.

"I know you can," Frank said. He made a noise like he was getting up from a recliner. "Which is why I've made a call to a friend of yours."

Danny was about to ask who, when Frank continued. "Jack Malone. I told him what happened."

Danny took in a breath. "He agreed to take it."

"He did. From what I was told, he should be heading back with clearance from the NYPD. He'll call in the agents by 7."

It was strange and disconcerting to feel so many strong sensations all at once, but sure enough a sudden gratitude surged through him as he listened to Frank. A small smile graced Danny's features as he leaned against the table. "I thought you didn't get to where you were by making friends."

Frank snorted and answered in his thick New York accent. "Yeah, well, don't let word get around. I might have to start being compassionate."

"This mean I get box seats for the Yankees games?"

"Don't push your luck." For a brief moment, Frank's voice became completely and utterly serious. "There's a reason I gave this case to Malone. He's sharp, and he gets the job done. But you're the only one who knows these kids better than they know themselves. You find them, Danny. And you bring them back."

Danny sat up straighter, feeling purpose overwhelm him.

"I will," he promised.

From there, Danny bounded into action. He made himself coffee. He showered and shaved his five 'o clock shadow. He took some aspirin, and he dressed in one of his most impressive suits. Straightening his tie, he climbed into the car, feeling butterflies churn violently in his stomach.

He felt like he was a rookie on his first case again. Jordan and Jason's lives hung in the balance, and it was suddenly up to him and his team to bring them back. Danny had failed at many things in the past few days. He had failed at influencing Jordan into staying off the streets. He had failed at keeping Sr. Rachel calm about the roles her position called her to fill. He had failed at remaining sober, and he had failed at keeping his confidence. Though made strong by the responsibilities being handed to him, part of Danny Taylor was terrified.

However it was important to focus on one task at a time.

First… he would have to face his team.


	25. 7 Hours Missing

Now, the story can _finally _move into the format of WaT. Hopefully, I'll be able to keep things closely knit to how things are done on the tv show. As always, let me hear some feedback!

Mariel3: haha! I'm pretty partial to Frank myself. ;) He's kind of based loosely off of a swim coach I once had in high school (isn't it funny the way those things work??)

Anmodo: In time, all things will be revealed I promise! I'm glad I've got you in suspense tho! What a compliment. :)

- - - - - -

The annoyingly bright sunrise gleamed through the office window and right into Martin Fitzgerald's eyes. Muttering, he reached over to pull down the blinds and turned back to his ever-present coffee mug. He closed his eyes as he chugged down the dark liquid, trying to mentally compel the caffeine to awaken his brain cells.

Across the room, Vivian pinned up two photographs on the empty disappearance timeline. "Good morning, sunshine."

Martin grumbled. "Whoever invented seven 'o clock in the morning should hang in the nearest courtyard." He took another swig.

"I think it was Jack."

Martin joined her at the board. "I wouldn't be surprised." Squinting, he studied the faces of the two missing children. A skinny teenage girl with long black hair held her arms tightly around a gleefully smiling toddler, the spitting image of the girl behind him. In the other, the same girl was featured in a mug shot, taken no less than a week before. He recognized neither.

"Mother?" Martin asked.

"Sister."

He nodded. "Who are they?"

"Jordan and Jason Coliandri," Vivian answered as she began organizing her remarkably cluttered desk. "Last night big sister escapes from juvy, and on the same night her brother inexplicably vanishes from the orphanage they both attend."

He smirked. "Coincidence?"

"I think not," Vivian sang.

As a thought struck him, Martin's brow furrowed. "From the orphanage, huh?"

"That's what they said."

He blinked, confused. "NYPD sent this to us?"

Vivian nodded, sorting methodically through her papers. "Mm-hmm."

A thoughtful expression appeared on his face. "Wonder what sent it to the top of the pile."

His reaction was no surprise. Martin had grown up to be politically conscious in a family whose life was spent in affairs of state and government. He was wealthy, but with such stature came an understanding of which cases became a priority and which were left to lesser jurisdictions.

People went missing every day. The question on Martin's mind was: what made this case so critical?

"Who knows them? Some government official?"

Vivian momentarily paused in her rearranging. "Danny."

Martin nearly choked on his coffee. He stopped himself before making a scene. "Danny? Danny Taylor?"

"Our very own."

"You're kidding."

"Nope." She had arrived early enough to hear the highlights from Jack. "He volunteers at the same church orphanage they hail from."

"Wow." He stared forward, only now finding it impossible to tear himself away from their pictures.

"Are you really all that shocked?"

Martin knew he shouldn't have been. The news certainly accounted for how short-tempered Danny had been recently. "I guess I just never pinned him as the Gospel type," he admitted. "But then again even though we've spent a lot of time together, there's not much I know about him outside of work."

"Well, Danny likes his privacy." Her voice lowered slightly. "Which is why it's going to be hard for him to come in today."

Martin shrugged. "So, we know he's the volunteer-on-the-weekends-type. So what? It's not like he's selling crack babies out of his basement."

Vivian didn't want to embellish on the situation. It wasn't her place, but when you're on a team, some things have to be made known. "Danny spent a lot of time trying to keep this girl out of harm's way. He's been a stable figure in her life since she was fifteen."

Martin grew somber at the description.

"It's personal, and that's something we deal with very carefully when it comes to these situations."

He took in every word Vivian was saying. It was a solemn topic, Danny's involvement in the life of a child. "She's that important to him, huh?"

"Your first emotional case is the one that matters the most."

"Yeah…" That was all it took. Like a bolt of lightning in a clear blue sky, the scenes flared before his eyes. Memories flashed of an abandoned warehouse. A child missing an ear… A gunshot… He clenched his eyes, physically pushing the disturbing images out of his mind.

He cleared his throat and kept the conversation trained away from him. "Yeah…I can understand that. I just never saw Danny as the type to sacrifice his professionalism."

"Sometimes it can't be helped." She breathed a distinct sigh. "There's always one."

Martin glanced over at her, a small smile in place. "Yeah? Which one was yours?"

Vivian held her mouth open, though no words would form. She was promptly saved from the question when the double doors of the office burst open.

Samantha sauntered into the room, briefcase in hand, hair fastened up in a loose ponytail. "Hey. Sorry I'm late. It seems morning traffic's reached a new realm of claustrophobia." She glanced back and forth between the two agents. "Did I miss something?"

Martin sent Vivian a stare. I'll bring this up again later.

Her hint of a smile birthed a challenge. You're welcome to try.

Looking away, Martin turned back to Sam. "Plenty."

He relayed to Samantha the few details he knew about the two missing youths while she made herself a cup of tea. However, before they could discuss anything but the facts of the case, Jack Malone emerged from his office, bearing readouts from the NYPD and Northeast Detention.

The team moved to their worktable, prepared for the debriefing of their case. Pleasantries and banter were exchanged in the normal fashion, and Jack was about to open up discussion when the office doors once again flew open.

- - - - -

Danny walked briskly into the office, face stern but collected. The car ride from his apartment was short, but it had given him enough time to plan his approach.

"Hey," he greeted, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred since he left the night before. "What'd I miss?"

Sam sat back in her revolving chair. She followed his lead, just as cavalier. "Just Martin's very entertaining impersonation of Judge Judy."

Martin smirked. "I can do it again if you like."

Danny's smile edged to the side, grateful for the moment of brevity. "Thanks, but I think I'll pass."

The joking died down at that point, a little too abruptly for Danny's tastes. He looked to each of the agents. Though his mind was set on overload, even a fool could have noticed.

They already knew about Jordan and the unconventional paths he had taken to try to keep her safe. He shifted in place. For someone who had spent the better part of his days keeping his personal life out of the limelight, it was uncomfortable to say the least.

Shaking his head, he brushed the thought aside. There would be all the time in the world to be uncomfortable later. He took his seat amongst them and looked to Jack. His eyebrows pent together as he waited for him to explain the situation. Though the articles had been informative, developments were sure to have been made.


	26. Morning Meeting

The search is on. (without a trace music plays in the background!) Updates will be slow, but they will keep coming as this story becomes clearer and clearer in my mind.

Mariel – Aw, thanks! Oh, and the reason for the problem is that I have a new email that I haven't changed yet. It's dianaclampeyahoo.com (coincidentally my real name, haha)

Anmodo – Awesome, I'm so glad you like it so far. Keep letting me know things, you've all been so helpful when it comes to feedback & suggestions!

- - - - -

Rising from his chair, Jack handed out packets of information to each of his agents, each holding a brief history of the siblings and the few known events that were believed to have led to their disappearance. He took a deep breath and began. "Jordan Coliandri, last seen at nine-thirty last night inside the Northeast Detention Facility. She was escorted to her room at lights out, along with seventeen other teenage girls that reside there. Both night watchmen say that she was securely locked in her room, and her disappearance remains a mystery to the staff."

Martin was the first to comment. "Sounds like it's time to have a conversation with security. See if she got anyone to turn."

"Unlikely," Vivian sent back. "She was only there four days."

Samantha squinted, her mind churning, working out the possibilities. As Danny watched her, he swore he could almost see the wheels turning. "Yeah, but four days is a long time when you're locked away," she said. "It's possible she might have made a few very helpful 'friends' inside."

At any other time, Danny would have cringed at the images the discussion sent coursing through his mind. However, in the work atmosphere, it was easy to deceive himself. He endured by pretending it was just another case. He pretended it was some random adolescent, some desperate nameless kid. It was easier somehow, not identifying that the missing youth actually was Jordan. It was about all he could do to keep himself sane.

When he opened his mouth, all eyes were upon him. "She's got a point. We've seen situations where bribery has happened before."

At his response, release seemed to break upon the team. It was clear they were relieved to see his objectivity was still at full force.

Jack nodded. "Which is why we'll be paying a house call to Northeast as soon as possible." He motioned to the board, still void of writing. "It's estimated that Coliandri escaped a little before midnight. The security guard supposedly fell asleep when he should have been monitoring her." He took a breath. "Two hours before that, at St. Luke's orphanage, Jordan's three-year-old brother went missing from his bedroom. The main caretaker was assaulted, by the looks of it by an intruder. There were no signs of struggle in the boy's bedroom. However, that does not rule out the possibility of a kidnapping."

Danny visibly agreed. "With her track record, she's made quite a list of enemies. Drug lords around here are known to be a little less than forgiving when it comes to disloyalty."

Jack looked to him. "The NYPD's already given us a comprehensive list of those associated with Bryce Layman and his dealings in the Bronx. But we're far from having them all. You've known this girl personally, Danny. That's something we'll be able to use to our advantage."

At any other time, Danny might have felt embarrassed, exposed by Jack. Instead all he could do was nod in agreement. His team was helping him find Jordan, a feat he doubted he could have performed on his own. At the moment that was all that the agent could care about. "The last time I spoke with her, she said something about a boyfriend outside of school," he said helpfully. "I'd be interested to see what he has to say about all this."

Vivian smiled. "I bet phone records'll tell their secrets there."

"There'll be proof of that at the convent," Danny said.

Jack pointed to him. "Which will be yours and Martin's first stop. The caretaker there is Sr. Rachel Corrione. She's been in charge since the orphanage began eight years ago." He looked to Danny. "I know you have a working relationship with her. I expect she'd be responsive to a familiar face. See what you can find out."

Danny stopped himself before he let off a cynical noise. With the way their last conversation had gone, he wondered about that. As he thought of her, he was reminded of the injuries she sustained, possibly at the moment he had gotten off the phone. Just like that, responsibility for her condition broke upon him. "I'll do what I can," he said.

Martin pointed to something in the information folder. "It says here that the orphanage is under investigation by Children's Welfare Services. Maybe there's more to that than meets the eye."

"There rarely isn't," Jack replied somewhat cynically. "I'll leave that for you two to unearth. Vivian, I'll want you to take charge of the phone records, but first… I'd like you to focus on security guard number one."

A photograph of an African American man in his early thirties was placed in front of her, along with a short description and his whereabouts. "Alfonzo Lewis. He's been working there a year and a half now, and he was promptly fired this morning. Feel him out. See where his priorities lie."

Danny noticed that she looked a little less than pleased with the first assignment… but upon hearing the second, she visibly brightened. She addressed the paper in front of her while climbing to her feet. "Mr. Lewis… Let's hope you talk more than your photograph does."

"Samantha," Jack said, earning her attention. "You're with me in Northeast. Plenty of questions need answering, and something tells me a visit there is the place to start." With the assignments handed out, the agents began preparing themselves to search and discover. Morning yawns and drowsiness were all but a memory. This was what they did. It was their life and livelihood. That familiar charge, the rush was felt by all, and especially by Danny.

Danny was in the midst of running through all the endless possibilities, who had an interest in Jason, where said suspects might have taken him, and who might have seen an abduction take place, when Jack called his name.

"Danny."

He looked up.

"Before you leave, I'd like a quick word."

Letting the packet fall onto the table with a 'slap', he rose from his chair. He followed Jack into his office, and the door shut behind them.

That familiar burn of the spotlight returned with no warning. Danny held his ground, trying to appear as strong and competent as possible. It wasn't a difficult task. He played the part every day with the grace of a pro.

Outside of the office, Samantha uncapped a sharpie and wrote in quick yet graceful handwriting. On one timeline, the words appeared: '12 a.m. Jordan escapes from Detention Center' and on the second one beneath it she wrote, '10:30 p.m. Jason disappears from St. Luke's Orphanage.'

She stared at the lines, confident that within mere hours more would be revealed about the fate of the two children. "Two down," she whispered to herself, staring intently at the board. "About thirty more lines to go."

As she grabbed her jacket off of the back of her desk chair, she arched her neck to peer into Jack's office. It took all her willpower not to grab the nearest juice glass and eavesdrop like an eight-year-old at his sister's first sleepover.

Martin was soon by her side. "Wouldn't you like to be a fly on the wall."

Samantha sent a smirk searing up at him. Once again, he'd read her mind.


	27. Touché

Slowly, this is getting written.  I don't need to tell you guys how busy things are.  Please review!

- - - - -

Jack Malone crossed over behind his dark mahogany desk.  As he reached over to grab a few choice files, he spared a quick glance at Danny.  That was all it took to study him.  Though the agent appeared as capable as always, Jack wasn't fooled.  His eyes still had traces of redness as well as heavy bags underneath them.  Last night it must have all come crashing down.  The last week had been hell for Danny Taylor, and from here on in things were only going to get worse.

And yet…Jack felt little desire to judge him.  Jordan needed people like Danny in her life.  After her father died and her mother deserted her, no other relatives had come forward to claim her.  Then, placed in an orphanage in the inner city with a propensity towards controlled substances in her bloodline?  She was truly one of the doomed.

When Danny stepped forward and took the initiative, part of Jack had approved.  But another part, a darker part, had been waiting for the inevitable disaster to strike.  He admired the young agent, even saw small traces of himself in Danny.  His work was above reproach.  He was a merit to his team and to the FBI.  However, the ever-present fear of having to watch his agent go down in flames kept Jack especially vigilant of the entire situation.

But at the end of the day, it was never his choice.  Not like it had been this morning.  When the NYPD called informing him of Jordan and Jason Coliandri's disappearance, he knew what he had to do.  He knew what he was getting himself into.  He just had to make sure that Danny did, too.

Once you become invested on an emotional level and allow it to dictate your reactions, you become a liability to yourself and everyone else on your team.  Things get sloppy.  If there was one thing Jack Malone didn't tolerate in himself or his team, it was sloppiness.

Danny was watching him, waiting for him to say something.  Finally, his agent broke the ice.  "Your phone must have rung pretty early this morning."

Jack nodded.  "Yeah, it does that sometimes."

A lull loomed between them.  Danny took in a breath.  "Jack.  I want you to know-"

"I'm keeping you limited on this case," Jack interrupted, keeping the exchange between them professional.  "I believe if I involve you beyond questioning Sr. Corrione, it could have results that would be destructive to the outcome of this case."

Danny's first instinct was to frown.  "Well, I don't like being kept on the sidelines, especially with this."  He looked Jack in the eye.  "But I understand why you're doing it.  In your position, I'd be doing the same thing."

"You feel that way now," Jack said.  "Things are quiet right now.  It's easy to cooperate.  But later, when things get intense, possibly fatal, I need you to continue to respect this decision."

Danny's face began to show that he was taking offense.  "Look, Jack, if you're going to attack judgments I haven't made yet-"

"Your judgments are tainted by the very fact that you know this girl."

"You think I'm going to do something brainless?"

"I think you're going to want to do something impulsive," Jack amended.  "Just like anyone would."

Danny stopped himself before he said anything he would regret.  He turned slightly to the side, quieting his thoughts that ordered him to respond out of anger.  When he looked up, Jack couldn't turn away from the fire in his eyes.  "When I started with Jordan, I may not have known what I was getting myself into.  Because of that, I may not have handled it as professionally as I should have.  But, if you're implying that I would jeopardize your life or any of the lives outside this office to fulfill some kind of hero agenda, you've got another thing coming.  I trust this team to find Jordan and her brother.  There's no team I'd trust more.  And just because I wish that it was me out there bringing them home doesn't mean I'll put people in harm's way to do it."

Jack looked down at his desk.  He found himself analyzing it.  So spotless, so organized, so unlike the chaos that tended to surround them.

Danny never flinched.  "I'd like to think you'd have known that."

When Jack gazed upward, an apology was obvious upon his face.  He let a few silent moments hang in between them.  "You understand why I had to say this."

Danny expelled a deep breath.  "Yeah," he reluctantly admitted.  "Yeah, I do."

"Okay."  Jack's warnings and lectures stopped there.  Danny was made fully aware of the circumstances.  That was what the conversation had been all about.  "That said…"  He honed in on him.  "How're you holding up?"

Danny's confident composure waned a little, providing a window to how distraught the agent had become.  "I'm alright.  It's just been a rough couple of days, you know?"

Jack nodded, his eyes never leaving Danny.  "Yeah, I do," he said.  "Whatever we find at Northeast, you'll be the first to know."

"Thanks."  From the path of Jack's conversation, Danny could tell he was being dismissed, but he stayed in place.  "And Jack."

The agent looked up.

"I want to thank you for taking this case.  I know you didn't have to."

Jack paused, unwilling to allow himself an emotional response. "You have a good friend in Frank Sanders."

Danny couldn't help but smile a little.  "Despite everything Frank's done to try to prove otherwise, I'm starting to see that."

"Well…" Jack lifted his briefcase as he began to leave the room.  "For some people that's just their way of letting other people know that they care about them."

Danny sent one of his impish grins Jack's way.  "_Some _people, huh?"

Jack successfully dodged the pointed question.  "For other people," he returned, looking right at Danny.  "It's completely apparent that they have affection for the people in their lives."

Rolling his eyes a little at the comment meant just for him, Danny looked out of the window of Jack's door.  He saw Samantha, arching her neck, squinting a little, trying catch a peek inside the office.  He turned to his boss, and it was clear.  Jack saw her, too.

Danny looked at Samantha and then back at Jack.  "It happens."

Jack lowered his gaze.  _Touché,_ he thought.  Perhaps he deserved it after the lecture he'd given Danny.  Perhaps he hadn't.  Either way, his smirk was a warning in disguise.  He looked to Danny.  "Get back to work."

With his apt reaction given, back to work Danny Taylor went.  Martin, already prepared to leave, was waiting by the door.  When Danny was ready, the two left the office for their interrogation of Sr. Rachel and those working in and around her convent.

Letting the office door close behind him, Jack Malone shrugged into his jacket and lightly tossed back his graying hair.  He checked himself in the nearest window.  God, he needed a haircut.

"There's a mirror in the ladies room if you need it," Samantha commented.

Jack smirked.  "Everyone's a wiseass."

"I only learn from the best."  Samantha smiled, that smile that could light up a room, that smile that seemed to seize him and draw him to her.

Jack ignored it.  He focused instead on the case at hand, and what finding Jordan and Jason would mean for the team…and for Danny… With a clear of his throat, he strode forward.  "Let's get to Northeast.  The sooner we get there, the better."

"Isn't that how it always is?"

Jack took a breath as he held the door open for her.  "Let me rephrase that.  The sooner we get out of there, the better.  Our presence there will not be welcome."


	28. 8 Hours Missing

My muses kick ass! They gave me another chapter! dances  
Mariel3 & anmodo: Aw, wow. I'm so glad you like it! Your approval means worlds to me.  
Just me :o) : Thanks so much! Always wonderful to meet a reader!! Quick question tho.... from your name, it sounds like I know you. Do I???  
- - - - -

The walk to Stratus and then the stiff atmosphere inside the car was about as uncomfortable as Martin Fitzgerald had ever been around Danny Taylor. The uneasiness that surrounded them was in a word: stifling. However, to his contentment Martin soon realized that it was one of the only times he had ever felt awkward in Danny's presence. The two had a relaxed working relationship; that was true, but it was more than that. Danny respected Martin. He had since the moment that he had met him, and Martin, who had entered into such an incredibly proficient and close-knit team, had needed that kind of kinship.

He supposed that was part of what made this trip so painful. He respected Danny in return, and therefore it wasn't his place to go prying for closeted skeletons that were none of his business.

He had planned to do just that, just keep his mouth shut and endure the ride. But as they were driving, Martin felt the air about them thicken, grow dense with silence. Not wanting to imagine it becoming any more unbearable, he spoke aloud.

"So," he said. "How long have you known her?"

"Sr. Rachel."

"Yeah."

"Seven years," Danny answered, inwardly marveling at what a long span of time it had been. "She was one of the first people I met when I started working at the orphanage."

Martin probably shouldn't have felt any thrill at such an answer. But it was somewhat exciting…hearing even the tiniest facet of a life kept so guarded. What Danny didn't realize was that by keeping his life a secret, he was making it all the more interesting.

"So…you've been in New York for a long time, huh?"

"Yep," Danny drawled.

Martin waited a few more moments, but it soon became clear that Danny had no wish to elaborate. With no other comments to make and no other polite questions to ask, Martin resigned himself to looking around the car. He'd been in the Stratus many times, often made remarks about the 'family sedan' as being a reliable choice and safe for the kids. He'd even tacked a 'Baby on Board' sign onto his back window one morning for shits and giggles. But Danny had never really found those jokes all that funny, and he certainly wouldn't now.

Martin went to grab his travel coffee mug when his hand unintentionally smacked into a CD sticking out of the CD player.

"Oops," he said.

A CD labeled 'Mix #3' spun and began to play. The chords that floated from the stereo belonged to the song 'Bled White.' Martin listened and then recognized the voice of the singer.

"You like Elliott Smith?" he asked in disbelief.

Danny's mouth hung open uselessly for a moment. "Um, yeah," he decided. "He's not so bad, once you get used to him."

It gave Martin a seg-way into small talk. "He writes songs for a lot of movie soundtracks. He do any live shows?"

For the first time since Danny could remember, Jordan's random trivia came in handy. "Not anymore," he answered. "The guy topped himself a few weeks ago."

"Oh," Martin said. He took a sip of his coffee. "That's cheerful. I guess I shouldn't be looking forward to any new albums then."

Danny smirked, letting out a small laugh. Martin smiled, only too thankful that the tension of the situation had lessened, despite the morbid reference.

The car pulled over into a small parking lot behind the church. "Here it is," Danny announced. "St. Luke's."

Martin studied the exterior. The church was a modest brick building, but well-built, with vibrant stained-glass windows lining the sides. Connected to the church were two smaller buildings. He assumed one was the convent, and then other, obviously, the orphanage.

The two exited the car, and when they did, Martin spotted a woman waiting for them by the porch steps. Beneath her a handful of children played harmlessly outside. Martin smiled to a little Asian girl playing with a hula-hoop. She grinned back widely to show two front teeth missing. She laughed when she saw his reaction, and Martin lent her an amused smile.

Shifting his gaze, Martin quickened his pace to catch up with Danny, who was already on the steps, and met him at the top.

Danny and the woman looked at each other. "They told me you were coming," she said.

He imparted a sympathetic gaze. "Then you understand all the things I have to ask you."

Martin quickly realized the woman before him to be Sr. Rachel. To put it bluntly, she wasn't what he had expected at all. She was young, barely into her thirties. She had chestnut brown hair, smooth skin, and a calm and comforting smile. He assumed the habit was hiding her injuries, but if he hadn't been informed of her attack, he never would have guessed that anything violent had happened to her at all.

Rachel nodded to Danny with a beauty birthed of strength rather than delicacy. She welcomed them inside, and after asking one of the deacons to watch the children, she joined them at the kitchen table.

- - - - -

After introducing Martin, Danny wasted little time in beginning the interrogation. "Where were you the night of Jason's disappearance?"

"I was in here," Sr. Rachel answered, setting down her teacup on a flowered saucer. "I heard a noise, which was nothing to write home about, but I came back to check on it. I felt something strike me from behind, and from there…I was out before I could discern anything else."

Danny nodded, keeping a perfectly detached face despite the description. "You awoke in the hospital."

"Yes." For a moment, emotion dipped into her speech. "I woke up… I learned Jason was gone, and the rest appears to be seen."

It was Martin's turn to address her. "When the cops came, they found that none of the locks had been broken, and there was no sign of a forced entry. Do you have any enemies that might have access to the orphanage?"

"Well, as a woman who holds orphaned children away from the state, the government, and sometimes the children's own families, I have plenty of enemies. Sure," she answered. "But I can't think of any that I've given the security code to."

Martin nodded. He planned to ask more questions about that later. "And no one saw anything?"

"If they have, they have yet to come forward."

As he listened to her answers, Danny was struck by a thought. He leaned forward. "Did any of the kids see anything?"

"We tried asking them," Rachel said. "But, you know children. The younger ones are so quick to agree with anything you say just to please you, and the others are old enough to be terrified. They think they're next."

Danny pressed her again. "But it is still possible they witnessed something."

"I'd like to think if they'd seen someone attack me, they would have said something."

"You never know," Danny said. "Children hold back valuable information sometimes. Especially if they think they're in trouble."

Rachel paused, taking a moment to examine his intentions. "You want to question them…don't you?"

"Sr. Corrione," Martin began. "We need to see every aspect of this case as clearly as possible. If we don't question every person here, including the children, we could miss something. Something that otherwise might have led us to Jason."

Even though Martin was talking, she and Danny never lost eye contact. "Someone might have seen something," Danny said again. "We have to start somewhere. It's standard, Rachel. I wouldn't ask you to do it if it wasn't important."

Rachel stared at him. "I won't let you scare them. They've been frightened enough with two of the children here missing without explanation. They're edgy… They're not themselves." She looked at Martin. "They've nightmares enough."

"And if they never see Jason?" Danny countered. "If we never find them? How will they react then?"

Breaking eye contact, the sister looked away, contemplating the possibility of such a terrible scenario. After a few moments of deliberation, she looked to Martin, and then back at Danny. "Alright," she conceded, rising from her chair. "But I stay in the room with them."

Martin didn't like the sound of that. "I'm sorry, Sr. Corrione, but just your presence there could have an effect on what they say and do."

The glance she sent him could have lifted a brick building with its strength. "You think they're not saying anything to the workers here? You wait and see how fast they clam up when they're faced with a complete stranger such as yourself."

Martin sent a subtle glance to Danny. From the look on his face, it was clear that what Rachel was saying was true. Martin took a moment to amend his first claim. "Alright," he said. "You can be there, but I'll need to ask you to stay to the back of the room." Unintentionally, he let attitude seep into his tone. "If that's okay."

She sent a smart remark right back. "It was the moment I thought of it. Why shouldn't it be now?" Without a further word, Sr. Rachel stalked past them and went outside to gather the children together.

Getting up from his chair, Martin crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, where Danny soon joined him.

Martin squinted, taking in a range of thoughts. "You think she's trying to hide something?"

It took Danny a moment to answer. "It's possible," he allowed, letting out an uncertain sigh. "She's been under more stress than I'd care to imagine. But right now, I'd rather focus on these kids."

"You really think they saw something, huh?"

"There's twelve of them here, all throughout the building. Kids are nosy. And they're much more knowledgeable of things than we give them credit for."

Martin watched Sr. Rachel as she arranged the children in two lines and began to lead them inside. He went to go secure a room inside the church for questioning. "Let's hope your right."

Danny looked on as the children entered past him, waving to him much more warily than they had in days before. Sr. Rachel sent him a glance as she filed past him. "I hope you know what you're doing," she said discreetly before disappearing into the next room.

Martin and Sr. Rachel hoped he was right, but Danny was far beyond hope. He had tried fooling himself into thinking it was just another case, involving people he had never seen before and probably never would again. Now, he understood it was nothing like that. In other cases, he too might have hoped he was right. But here in this orphanage he _needed _to be right, especially if he was going to find Jason and Jordan Coliandri alive.


	29. Northeast Detention

Part of the reason why I made so few updates from January-May was that I had the opportunity to work at Luzerne County Juvenile Probation Office. I was a field intern there, and we saw some pretty crazy things. One of the confessions that I have to make is that a lot of this chapter is gleaned from things I learned there. I thought it would be interesting to put the WaT team through the same thing I was. ;)

Hehe, as always, the reviews motivate me! Thanks so much, you two!

- - - - -

After Jack's conversation with Danny, he and Samantha left for Northeast Detention. To Samantha's surprise, it was only a short drive to the center. She stared out the window as the massive facility loomed in the distance.

Jack was looking at it, too. "It's only just been completed this month."

Samantha nodded; she remembered it vaguely.

"Lots of debate," Jack commented.

"More boot camps mean more juvenile crime," she associated.

Jack nodded and turned into the massive driveway leading up to the institution.

Samantha Spade was no stranger to Northeast Detention Center, or any other detention center in the greater New York area for that matter. The state-funded building was an all-girls facility, and while Samantha had never worked there, when you communicated with teenagers as often as their team did, you found yourself behind its walls now and again.

Northeast wasn't so bad. It was one of the more liberal placement sites that prided itself on something called "Balanced and Restorative Justice," better known as BARJ. There were a lot of diehard advocates and instructional videotapes surrounding the phenomenon, especially in law enforcement. The point was to teach juvenile delinquents empathy and find conventional ways for them to enter back into the community as law-abiding citizens, instead of locking them away until they were 21.

BARJ, pronounced 'barge', was a nice enough concept. But if you heard the word enough, it started giving you a migraine. Around the office, they joked about it. "I went to the doctor's. He says I've got a bad case of barj." "Why don't you go barj yourself?" Or the ever famous, "I'm going to the men's room. Gotta take a barj." It provided for moments of brevity around the grave subject of juvenile crime. However, now as Samantha sped toward Northeast, the embodiment of such a notion, she wondered how seriously its supporters were taking its creed. If Jordan had been able to escape so readily, she suspected that maybe too much emphasis was being put on anger management, and not enough on airtight security.

Using their badge to get past surveillance, they got a visitor's tag for the car. Once parked, they buzzed in through the double doors of the complex. The juvenile facility had a simple, no-nonsense exterior. Inside, though BARJ was supposedly in full-effect, the place still looked just like a prison.

Jack and Samantha had barely waited three minutes before they were greeted at the entrance. A full-figured woman with a flushed face and bifocals tentatively smiled as she clip-clopped up to meet them.

She introduced herself as Mrs. Caroline Charlot, and she only had to speak for a matter of seconds before Samantha had her classified.

Ah, she quickly realized. The public relations assistant, here to verify that everything is running like clockwork…despite the fact that one of their inmates disappeared without a trace the night before.

After introductions, Mrs. Charlot took them through a tour of the station, addressing them as though they were inside of the Sheraton Hotel instead of inside a penal complex for delinquent teens.

Jack and Samantha shared a glance in the midst of Mrs. Charlot's chatter. "And here we have the recreation room, where our girls participate in many after therapy gym sessions-"

Jack's unimpressed face began to show overt disdain. "Yes, we can see that. I hate to forgo the grand tour, but we're here to investigate the disappearance of an adolescent from your facility."

For a moment, she flustered before saying, "Well, I just thought being FBI you'd be interested-"

"This is not a daytrip for us, Ms. Charlot."

Samantha stepped forward. "We're here on official affairs with the FBI. If we want tourism, we'll drop by Madison Square Gardens."

Mrs. Charlot's entire body was taken aback by her frankness.

"Now," Samantha continued. "Where was she being held?"

After making a few pompous noises, the woman motioned towards a corridor. "The division Jordan Coliandri was placed in is right over here…" She began to lead them down a hallway, when she was stopped by an officer hailing from the NYPD.

The officer whispered something to her, and Mrs. Charlot turned to them. "Follow me," she said, suddenly becoming entirely official. Jack and Samantha exchanged another surreptitious glance before being immediately directed into a block labeled D-14.

Mrs. Charlot held open the door for them, adopting a much more professional tone. "It seems they just discovered how Jordan Coliandri made her escape."

- - - - -

The moment Jack entered into block D-14, he was able to see why Northeast Detention had been so quick to give them a distraction. The cellblock was a mess of NYPD officers, detectives, media personnel, photographers, and other workmen, clearly experts in their respective fields.

It wasn't difficult to see what had caused the uproar. Northeast Detention, a facility that boasted the best internment program in New York City, had suffered its first successful escape within only a month of its installment. The facility's laissez-faire stance had been the subject of dispute for months before its doors even opened. Any mysteries had to be solved immediately, or the media would dance all over it.

However, Jack wasn't here for the circus. He had questions that needed answering, and after being given the 360-degree run-around, he had lost all good humor with the situation.

They flashed their badges, and the crime scene tape was lifted. Striding onto the scene, Jack and Samantha followed Mrs. Charlot into what they learned had been Jordan's cell for the past few days she spent incarcerated. Only one man stood inside the cell. She introduced them to an special squad officer named Brian Zorn, and she promptly disappeared, most likely too embarrassed by her prior display to get in the way of anything else. Jack was only appreciative.

"FBI," Brian exclaimed. A tall and lanky officer stared them back. He had the stance of a construction worker and the drawl of a Southern farmer, complete with a tape measure attached at his belt. He looked up and around the cell, furnished only by a simple bed and desk attached to the wall. He rubbed his forehead. "Guess you guys want to hear how this girl got out."

Jack spared a quick glance behind him. "Us and everyone else."

Unlike Mrs. Charlot, Brian wasted no time in divulging information. "First successful escape this county has seen in over five years. When they called me in this morning from the department, they had no clue how anyone could have orchestrated this. They don't keep specialized video cameras in each of the rooms, seein' as how the last privacy regulation decreed it unconstitutional." Brian rolled his eyes as Samantha gave a knowing nod. "But it was never considered a problem because the rooms are laid together with brick and steel." He pounded the wall to show it to be rock solid. "These are thick lil puppies. The kids would need a jackhammer to even think about getting through here."

Jack nodded, somewhat impatiently. "So what happened?"

"This morning it looked like nothing had happened, aside from the fact that she'd checked out of the place. Nothing was missing. Nothing was out of place. But what I did notice…" Brian bounded up a stepladder and lifted himself up in one spry movement. His fist slammed into the plaster ceiling.

The ceiling jumped.

"Was a draft."

Jack watched as Samantha's mouth parted in disbelief.

Brian looked to her appropriate reaction. "That's what I said. It seemed that the agency was so heave-ho about opening the place, they forgot to let the roof settle."

Jack closed his eyes and rolled them underneath his eyelids. He frowned deeply, made irritated by such a blatant lack of propriety. "How did this happen?"

Brian shrugged. "Ignorance. Miscommunication. Misfiled paperwork. You name it. Either way, this place is gonna have a fun time explaining all this in court."

Samantha's lips formed a frown. "Wait a minute. So all this is just a matter of her punching her fist into the ceiling."

"Oh, you haven't heard the best of it." He climbed another step and pointed to the edge of the ceiling. "It took me awhile to figure out how some small-fry was able to open a rooftop. But then I saw this…." He ran his finger along the frame. "See how the paint's chipped and the edge's all frayed?"

Samantha nodded that she saw.

Brian smiled. "A key."

Jack's face fell a degree further. "And how did she get that?"

Brian shrugged again. "Must have kept it on her somehow. Must have hid it somewhere on her person." His voice muttered. "And I won't get into all the ways that could have happened…."

"How do you know it was a key?" Samantha wanted to know.

"Serrated edges," Brian answered. "And it's one of the only things small enough that security wouldn't have picked up on."

Jack let out a deep and angry sigh. He'd been in Northeast Detention for less than a half hour and already he loathed it with a vengeance. "Unbelievable," he muttered to himself. "I can't wait to let the board hear this."

Brian continued. "She scraped the key against where the wall meets the ceiling. She must have noticed it the moment she got here and been workin' on it every night at lights out. It'd make such a quiet noise that no one would have noticed." He lifted up the ceiling. It only opened a sliver. "Girl was rail thin, else it wouldn't have been much of an escape."

From there imagination carried Jack through what must have happened. Jordan finds a weakness, exploits it, and crawls out onto the roof the moment things are quiet. He could see her now, running under the cover of darkness, breathing heavy, dodging the guards, and climbing the walls…until she reached the outer limits and the streets.

Though greatly perturbed by the events that must have led to her escape, Jack focused on the situation at hand. "And you're sure this is what happened?"

Brian looked up to study the ceiling once more. "As the day I was born."

"Thanks for the run through," he said. "Where've they traced her?"

Brian pointed to the group of officers behind him. "Dogs followed a scent up the road. Stops at a payphone on Birch St."

Jack's face steeled with purpose. "Show me."


	30. House Call

Wow, chapter 30. I can barely believe it! I'm so glad you liked the last chapter. Working at the probation office was one of the best experiences of my life (and my time there changed this story completely!) As I am going to Taiwan tomorrow (yes TOMORROW!), I don't know when my next update will be. Hopefully, there is internet access there, but if there isn't, I will be back before the end of July. Either way, good luck to all of you writing! See you soon! And now - back to Vivian…..;)

- - - - -

Vivian Johnson stood alone outside a deteriorating apartment complex, the strong breeze whipping back her hair as she stared up at the grubby balconies and dusty awnings, yellow with age. The awning lazily nodded up and down in the wind, as if inherently aware of its disgrace and apologizing.

She looked down at a slip of paper in her hand. 133 Northampton Street. She surveyed the street signs around her. This was the place. Unfolding the photograph Jack had handed her, she readied her badge and made her entrance into the three-story apartment building.

A mustached man reading a dog-eared copy of Maxim shifted his gaze as she tapped on the glass of his office window. When he shifted his eyes, all he saw was her badge.

"Housekeeping," Vivian sang.

- - - - -

The manager led her up a flight of rickety stairs that looked like they hadn't seen a sweeping since the Stone Age. After showing him the photograph, he had unceremoniously guided her to room 303 and just as casually left her to talk shop with Mr. Lewis.

Vivian sighed as he creaked back down the stairs. Apparently, this wasn't the first time the FBI had come to call.

Hoping that Alfonzo Lewis wasn't the gun-carrying type, she knocked loudly on his door. When no answer came, she pounded harder, calling, "Mr. Alfonzo Lewis. Open up please. FBI."

The catcall proved just the inspiration needed. The door cracked open. A mirror image of the photograph stared back at her distrustfully. Scrutinizing the badge, he turned back around. He said a few words to a woman behind him, and he waited until she'd cleared the room to pull open the door.

"Alfonzo Lewis," Vivian greeted.

He looked her up and down. "Yeah. What're you here for?"

"Oh, not too much," Vivian said, replacing her badge. "Just to have little chat about Jordan Coliandri and how she's no longer a resident of Northeast Detention Center."

The door opened all the way, and muttering under his breath, he invited her in.

"Thank you," Vivian said a little more graciously than necessary. She took a seat at his table, which still had coffee rings and crumbs of eggs and toast littering the place settings. Dirty dishes piled by the sink, and the carpet was in even worse shape than their countertops. Vivian smirked. To be honest, it only reminded her of her own house after a round of breakfast madness.

Alfonzo left the room to speak to a haggard-looking woman in the hallway of the small apartment, who was bouncing an infant up and down on her hip.

Vivian strained her ear to listen to their conversation.

"I'm sorry, baby," he murmured to her. "This'll only take a second." The woman glared forward, but after a few irate whispers, she left him alone to discuss business.

Alfonzo returned, running a hand through his unkempt hair. He turned on the overhead kitchen light and took in the scene. "I'd apologize for the mess, but…" He took a seat across from her. "I'm sure you get this all the time. Coffee?"

"No thank you," she said. She spared a glance behind her. "A little trouble in paradise?"

He made a derogatory sound, picked up a cigarette, and lit up. "She's just a little cranky, seeing as how the FBI's on my doorstep," he said bluntly. "I promised no more police after Jamar was born."

Not an ounce of sympathy touched her face. "Says here you've had a little bit of a drug problem."

Alfonzo sneered at her, letting out a breath of smoke. "Yeah, thanks for refreshing my memory."

"Actually, I was hoping you could refresh mine. You've been clean for four months."

"That's right," he quickly declared. He blinked rapidly before regarding Vivian with a frown. "You guys sure do your homework."

Vivian only took his reaction as a compliment. "We at the FBI like to keep ourselves informed. Gotten any temptations recently?"

He made a nasty face. "What?"

"You've been working at Northeast Detention Center for three months. That's long enough to get to know people. Their habits…their connections…A lot of chances to break back into the dope circle."

Bewilderment was followed by anger. "What're you talking about?"

"Jordan Coliandri," Vivian spelled out. "She's escapes free and clear, same night you're on duty."

"Yeah. So what?"

"So, I was just wondering if she had any help relocating."

Alfonzo pointed a finger. "I had nothing to do with that."

"I don't know, Mr. Lewis," Vivian breathed out. "Girl that young, plenty of connections to drug dealers. It's pretty convenient that she goes missing the same night you're working that post."

"It was one night. One night I fall asleep and all hell breaks loose!"

Vivian spoke with mock sympathy. "Aw, you're breaking my heart."

"Hey look, lady." It was official. He'd lost all tolerance, which was exactly what Vivian had wanted. She now paid special attention. The man was infuriated. _This _was where people began to show their true colors. "If you're trying to pin something on me, just tell it to my face. At least have the common decency to let me get a lawyer before you scare my wife and kid."

Vivian smiled a little and gave a small shrug. "Why would you need a lawyer?"

"Please," he drew out. He crushed his cigarette stub down in disgust before rising from his chair. "You think the media hasn't been here already?"

Now it was Vivian's turn to be confused. That was news to her ears. "Have they now?"

"They came by this morning." He said it smugly, as he found it to be something the agent hadn't known. "Wanted to hear all about her miraculous escape. As if _I _could tell them anything." He slammed himself back into his chair, repulsed. "I want nothing to do with it. That girl has been the bane of my existence…"

The strong words caused Vivian's brow to furrow. "You care to explain that statement?"

Alfonzo's frown cut deep. "Ever since that girl made her get-away all I've been doing is wishing I'd kept myself awake that night. NYPD's demanding to how she got out of her cage. Northeast fired my ass first thing this morning. The media's breathing down my neck, and now the FBI's here ready to send me back to my defense attorney."

Vivian watched him carefully.

He pointed forward. "I'm back on the bread line thanks to that girl. You think I wouldn't have screamed bloody murder if I saw her get away that night?"

Vivian stepped outside the situation, looking at it now from all perspectives. Alfonzo may have had his trouble with the law. He was a scumbag, who didn't have much a chance to turn a buck in law-abiding society. But that didn't make him Jordan's escape artist.

After asking him a few more questions, she thanked him and apologized for taking up his time. Alfonzo, though less than courteous, did his best to regard her with respect before showing her the door. Vivian left the apartment building and wasted no time getting to her car. She called Jack while she was still on the sidewalk.

"Malone," he answered.

"I just got done talking with Mr. Alfonzo Lewis."

"And?"

"He may have had his run-ins with Johnny Law, but he had nothing to do with Jordan's escape. He's a dead end."****


	31. 10 hours missing

I love writing this story so much (and I love all of _you _so much!), that I am updating while I am overseas. Taiwan is amazing in every sense of the word, and there is not enough space here to describe all the ways. But, it has not detered me from posting another chapter. Remember to review! You know I'm a sucker for it. ;)

- - - - -

Dead ends. In the past few hours, that was all Jack Malone was finding. They irritated him. "Nothing, huh?"

"With a young wife and newborn in tow, he's out of a job because of last night."

Jack mulled for a moment before replying, "That doesn't leave much motive."

"Exactly. It just doesn't fit the profile. If he'd wanted to break the law, he would have found a more convenient way to do so. He certainly wouldn't have done it at work."

The claim made sense. However, that didn't mean he had to appreciate the new questions this answer left in its wake. Storing the information near the front of his mind, Jack shifted gears with the ease of a well-oiled carburetor. For now they would direct their attention elsewhere. By this point he and Samantha had left the facility and were now trudging up the side of a barren road towards Jordan's last known advent.

A nearby officer hurriedly motioned towards them, and Jack regarded Vivian once more. "I'll call you back." He closed the phone with a 'click.'

Samantha turned to Jack, reading him. "No luck, huh?"

"It doesn't seem to be our day for it."

The youngest of a conglomeration of officers greeted them by the crime scene. "FBI?"

Their badges appeared once again. Jack was beginning to feel like a prepubescent boy in a liquor store. "Missing Persons Unit. What've you got for us?"

"Two things," he informed.

Sam turned to Jack with an impressed glance.

The officer led them to a ramshackle phone booth. To call it ancient would have been a kindness. Brownish-green grass grew unhindered in tall shoots around the rusty booth, and a myriad of graffiti lined its walls. To be blunt, it was as typical as any phone booth Jack had ever seen.

"The K-9 unit traced her scent to this point." The young officer gestured to a corroded shard jutting out from the side of the booth. "We found skin residue on the outside, along with some traces of blood. The guys sent it to the lab, but we're still waiting on results."

Examining the jagged edge, Jack felt a conflict brew within him. If the test results came back positive, the next step could be taken. Proof of Jordan's existence at the phone booth was high quality. It placed her at a certain date and time, and hopefully would bring them one step closer to discovering her whereabouts. However...the keys words here were "traces of blood." The surfacing of such a clue opened up far too many unpleasant scenarios. He made a face. It left a bad taste in his mouth.

Samantha narrowed her eyes at the officer. "You said there were two things."

The officer reacted as if she'd held a hot poker to his rear. "Yes," he affirmed. He held up a finger, indicating that they wait and literally ran over to his superiors.

Following his retreating form with her eyes, Samantha muttered to Jack, "Since when did the NYPD start recruiting the puberty police?"

Jack smirked a little. Her observations were sound. The kid was barely a day over twenty-one, and with his wispy blonde hair and baby- blues, he would make a more convincing model for Old Navy than a hardened city cop. Jack began to fall into routine, categorizing, estimating, profiling... The kid probably came from Indiana or Ohio; that accent was a dead giveaway. He was a farm boy, born and raised, and he had left for the city in hopes of finding adventure and excitement, a break from his mundane existence. He was book-smart and worked hard at school, or else he never would have gotten this far. He joined up right after college. This was probably one of his first assignments, a hand-out from his lieutenant to let 'junior' get his feet wet. He'd never been to a murder scene. He stuttered around women, and he had yet to actually use the bulging gun in place at his side.

Jack blinked as the officer turned around with an overly satisfied smile, before his mind jolted back to the case at hand. After a short exchange, the kid returned with a handful of computer readouts.

It was obvious that the young officer hadn't a clue that he was being boxed and packaged. "We got these from the phone company." He handed them to Samantha. "It's a list of the all the numbers called in the last twenty- four hours."

Samantha perused the papers in front of her. The packet consisted of three pages, a fair amount for a phone booth sitting out in the sticks. To her continued surprise there were quite a few calls made before, at, and after midnight. She frowned at the length of numbers that stretched out before her.

Jack noticed the same. He looked up to the officer. "We'll need a copy sent to our office." The rookie nodded double-time and went to see that their needs were met. Watching him, Jack shook his head. The officer's zeal was irksome. However, it was a change he could welcome, when you considered that most of the joint investigations between the NYPD and FBI tended to end in a Mexican stand-off.

Samantha usually would have made a crack about newbie's pension for brown-nosing, but from her pensive frown, anyone could see that she was lost in thought. S taring at the phone booth, she addressed Jack. "Seems like Coliandri left behind more pieces that we thought."

"Looks like it," Jack replied. Details of her escape were emerging, gradually piecing together the events that led to her disappearance. I n nearly an instant, they had gone from a complete absence of clues to a magnitude of evidence. Part of him questioned their luck, but another part just remained grateful. Good fortune was hard to come by.

The rookie returned triumphant. "A copy was faxed to your office. It should be there any minute."

A memory of Jack's own first days on the force swelled back to him. He hadn't summoned the memory. It had more smacked him in the face, like a surprise wave at the beach. He recalled the uncertainty, the readiness to please... The passionate yet fleeting ideals that he called him to the FBI in the first place. With it he had no choice but to dispense one of his rare smiles.

"Thanks," he said.

The rookie smiled back.

As they walked away, Samantha cast her eye at Jack. "What was _that _all about?"

"Keeping up appearances. After Ms. Charlot's dance party, it's nice to see a little enthusiasm."

Samantha raised her eyebrows before reverting back to her initial concerns. "There were a lot of digits on that read-out."

"I know," he grumbled. "Plenty of places she could have called. Plenty of people she could have gotten in touch with."

"So, she escapes from Northeast. She calls someone to play get-away driver. Said person shows up... and she leaves behind her blood on the phone booth." She rested a pen in the crock of her mouth. "We could have foul play on our hands."

It was Jack's turn to frown. "With the company she keeps, I wouldn't be surprised, but we won't know for sure until those phone numbers are traced."

With a confirming nod, Samantha averted her gaze as if to say 'good luck with that' and went to speak again to one of the other officers in hopes of learning more about their rapidly evolving situation.

As promised Jack called Vivian back. "Hey, Viv. You know that second assignment?"

She answered. "The one I detest with my entire being?"

"Yeah, that one. You'll now have a full and extensive knowledge of every caller in the last twenty-four hours from Birch St. public phone services. How many people can brag about that?"

Her voice was saturated by sarcasm. "I'll the envy of the useless talents ball."

"I thought they didn't judge that 'til January?"

A click of the phone let him know she'd hung up on him. It didn't faze him. Vivian was agitated, but such an emotion served to fuel her. She'd pick through the numbers with a fine-tooth comb. It was how she operated; it was why he had hired her. With no more evidence to report, Jack and Samantha started back down the hill to Jack's car. If he knew Vivian, she'd have something worth showing him by lunchtime.


	32. Kylie

I returned home on the night of the 29th, and let me tell you, it was great to come home. The welcome from friends and family was spectacular. As were to come home and find reviews. :) I hadn't been to a computer since I updated, so it was just very nice to see readers. That said! Here you go anmodo, more Danny to satisfy! And there will be even more to come once I get my butt in gear and write the next chapter...

- - - - -

The questioning at the convent went on for two and a half hours straight, all leading to much less than Danny Taylor needed. The testimonies had been terrible. Not one child had seen anything at all, or if they had, they hadn't been coaxed into revealing it. He held his forehead in his hand, scrunching his face against his open palm. Wanting nothing more than to scream out in frustration, he chose instead to calmly gather the notes from the interrogations.

He tried to convince himself that things could have been worse. Sr. Rachel, though a permanent fixture in the room, had remained as stoic as the religious statues outside. She allowed them to ask as many questions as they wanted, and true to form, she only aided when it was helpful.

However, when she announced that she was leaving the room to check on the children, both Martin and Danny felt a swell of relief. The door clicked shut behind her, and Danny let out a sigh.

"Well," Martin remarked. "That was a little less than successful."

"Which one was your favorite?" he asked, agitated.

"I liked the one where Godzilla did it."

Danny closed his eyes, not believing that that was actually the best they had done. Hell, at least in that one there had been an identified perpetrator. After all the blank stares, shrugging shoulders, and scared eyes, Danny was losing his enthusiasm.

"Don't pack up too soon," Martin said. "We still have one more."

"Who?"

"Kylie. Last name missing." Martin looked around before mumbling. "Like everything else in this place."

The comment irked him, but Danny understood why he had made it. Missing children, missing testimony, missing eyewitness account. Take away the few people left, the windows and curtains, and there was no orphanage at all. Burdened by his own pessimism, Danny shook his head.

Kylie...She was the new girl. In the midst of all the questioning, he had forgotten that she even attended the orphanage.

"Bring her in," Danny instructed.

And bam. The simple command worked its magic. Oxygen filled his lungs. He gained poise, he gained direction; he gained focus, all in a heartbeat. He could do this, he ordered himself. No matter what Kylie had or hadn't seen, it wasn't over. They could still be found...

The door opened, and an eleven-year-old girl with cropped-short blonde hair followed Sr. Rachel into the quiet library. Actually, Sr. Rachel had told Martin that it was a library. Danny knew the room was regularly used as a confessional, which was ironic considering their intentions there. Whether or not non-Catholics were intimidated by rooms like these, Danny couldn't say, but he had been uncomfortable from the second he stepped foot inside. Too many vulnerable moments took place behind walls like these; too many secrets were told.

He mentally rolled his eyes at himself. Maybe that was the real reason he was having such a difficult time with these interviews. That irritating notion of Catholic guilt. As his thought process shifted, Kylie found a seat. Introductions were made, and Danny sent the girl a disarming smile.

Kylie had no reaction. She stared off to the side. Where the other children had been anxious and skittish, Kylie was cool, seemingly disinterested with the entire situation.

Though he wanted to frown, he kept smiling. "Sr. Rachel tells me you're new to the convent."

Kylie kept her arms crossed at the waist. Her blonde strands strayed in the way of her eyes. "Yeah. So?"

Ah, the charm of youth. The static rolled right off his back. "So, I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to meet you before this. I work around the convent, helping out mostly with legal matters, but I like to be a part of what happens here."

Kylie couldn't have looked more apathetic if she tried.

Seeing the fruits of Danny's tactics, Martin took a nosedive into business. "You know that Jason Coliandri went missing from the convent last night."

"Yeah."

Martin continued. "His sister disappeared right after that from Northeast Detention Center. All while you were here last night."

"Yeah." She shifted a little this time, as if she had a bug-bite on her neck and was trying to scratch it with her shoulder.

Danny honed in on her, looking right into her eyes. "So...what did you see last night?"

Kylie didn't even bat an eyelash. "Um, nothing?"

"Nothing?" Danny echoed disbelievingly. He looked down at the chart in front of him. "It says here that you live only one room down from Jason."

The arms pulled tighter. "Yeah, so?"

"So I've been in these rooms before." Danny tapped the wall behind him with his knuckle. "They're paper thin. Someone coughs on the other side of the wall, you hear it."

Kylie opened her mouth like she was going to say something, but then stopped, opting for the silent treatment. Staring in no particular direction, she pursed her lips, forcing any words that might come out back down her throat.

Danny, maintaining a brotherly approach, shrugged while smiling. "So you didn't hear anything."

Her silence was an answer in itself.

"You must be a sound sleeper," he said. "I know. I am, too. I could sleep through an elephant stampede during a Godsmack concert."

Danny waited for the chuckle, but somehow Kylie was able to contain herself.

With a deep breath, Martin took over. "Kylie, I'm going to be straight with you," he said. "We've been searching for Jordan and Jason since we heard of their disappearance. We're trying our hardest to find them, and we haven't had much luck. The truth is, we need your help." He asked her again, more seriously this time. "You sure you didn't see anything?"

Through her perpetual silence, Danny watched her, and as he watched her, he couldn't help but notice where he'd seen that look before. She looked like Jordan, just like Jordan as she had sat in the interrogation room at the NYPD, refusing to speak to anyone. Their stances were mirrors; their frowns, replicas.

That's when it hit. A scene from the week before closed Danny's eyes. Sr. Rachel's habit blew back in the light breeze. Roberto limped into the convent alongside Kylie. When both were out of sight, Sr. Rachel turned to him. _'She loves Jordan. Follows her around like she's a celebrity. Like it's her job...'_

When his eyes opened, it took only a moment to catch Martin's eye. From his chair Danny pitched him a steady, meaningful stare. Martin read it perfectly. With nary a word, he blinked, rose to his feet, and motioned for Sr. Rachel to follow him. Revolted by the very idea, Sr. Rachel stubbornly rooted her feet in place and arched her neck to the side. Rolling his eyes, Martin latched onto her arm and wrenched her out into the hallway.

Despite a few whispered protests, the exchange was perfectly silent. Watching her caretaker leave the room, Kylie's cool and unaffected pose quivered. "What's going on?" she demanded. Her voice had changed. It was scared. "Why'd they leave the room?"

"Because," Danny said evenly, "it's time for you to start telling the truth."


	33. Unrest

Geez, it's taking me a long time to update these days. anmodo I can't thank you enough for the review. :) I'm having a lot of fun writing these character (though sometimes it's trying), so thank you all so much for the feedback. This story is such an outlet for me. Let me know what you think!

- - - - - -

Sr. Rachel broke out of Martin's grasp the moment the door slammed behind them. Undaunted, she charged forward once more, but Martin had better speed. He caught her again, this time blocking the door with his body.

She shoved his arm off of hers. "Let me back in."

"I'm sorry, sister. I can't do that."

Most women are blessed with the ability to glare. Sr. Rachel had a divine gift. "Do you care to explain why?"

Martin Fitzgerald stayed a cool as the other side of the pillow. "Danny wanted us to clear the room."

"Really? And how could you tell that?"

"He gave me the signal."

"Let me guess. You guys have telepathy now?"

It was Martin's turn to glare back. "No, we use our decoder rings." He motioned towards the closed door. "He's got Kylie talking in there, which is more than we've had in over two hours. Which also means that we just might find the two children who've gone missing from your orphanage. So you might try being a little grateful, instead of biting my head off."

Face flushed, Sr. Rachel stormed across the hallway to steam. Martin gave her room to sulk. The animosity surrounding her was strong; Martin thought it would outlast the interrogation. But to his surprise, after a good ten minutes, its cloud visibly weakened. She must have decided that he _wasn't _the biggest asshole in the world because she strode back over to him, where he'd propped himself up against the wall.

"Do you really think he's got something?" she asked.

"It's still too early to tell."

Sr. Rachel sighed, and crossing her arms leaned next to him against the wall. "You must be close," she said. "You and Danny."

Martin knew a peace offering when he saw one. He took it. "Well, when you work with someone every day for three years, you get to know a person."

"How long have you been doing this?" she asked.

"All together?" She nodded. "Around seven years. I worked in a number of agencies when I first started out, mostly dealing with white-collar crime. It was where the money was," he explained.

"But it didn't…" Sr. Rachel searched for the right wording. "Do it for you."

A brief laugh escaped from his lips. "No," he admitted. "It didn't."

Nodding, Sr. Rachel looked away, choosing to peer at the closed door of the library, as if staring hard enough would somehow burn a window to the inside. While she gazed forward, Martin gave her a once-over.

Looking her up and down, he asked the question that had been on his mind since the moment he met her. "What made you want to become a nun?"

If he had thought her distracted, he'd thought wrong. "The whole God thing," she said. "Never could get off of it."

He nodded. "Fair enough."

"How about you?" She countered. "What made you get into law enforcement?"

It took Martin a moment to reply. "My father mostly." He could have gone into a million reasons why, but his father – though he hated to admit it – had been the first.

"Uh-oh." She smirked.

"What?"

She put up her hands. "Just sounds like a some classic father/son unrest. That's all."

"Yeah, well, thanks, Captain Obvious. I needed the reminder."

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "It comes with the territory. You spend all day trying to see things people can't see themselves…Trying to shine light in the darkness. And then, when you're 'off duty' so to speak, it's…"

Martin filled in the words. "It's almost impossible to turn it off."

Sr. Rachel and Martin shared something in that moment. Their eyes held the same understanding, like two lighthouse beacons that shone blindingly at each other for just a split second. But like beacons meant to spiral, that second ended. They looked away.

She kept to questions to pass the unbearable time. "Do you like your job?"

"Yes." There was no hesitation. Martin found himself surprised…and smiling. "I do."

"I can hear it in your voice. It must be nice to feel that kind of passion."

"And you don't?"

It caught her speechless. "I…" She brushed wisps of hair out of her brown eyes to buy herself a moment. "I used to."

"Uh-oh."

It was her turn. "What?"

"Just sounds like you have a little unrest yourself."

She stared at her feet. "With my creator, huh?"

"You said it. Not me." To tell the truth, Martin didn't want to do it to her. She seemed the decent sort, especially after the conversation they'd shared. However, an investigation was underway, leaving her in its centerfold. He had felt her out. Now, it was time to make his move. "It must be difficult. Keeping this place up and running. Keeping track of fourteen children. All with the government breathing down your neck… It might make a person overworked…Maybe even resentful."

The smirk faded from her lips. "My," she said. "That concern came rather suddenly."

Martin's voice became tighter. "It's my job to be concerned."

The air about them began to build electricity. "And why would you be so concerned about me?"

"I've just spent some time watching your reactions in that room…the way you responded to the questioning, the hesitation you give with every question I ask."

Her form straightened, like a person turning to stone. Martin could have sworn he felt the room grow a degree cooler. "Are you trying to get at something, Agent Fitzgerald?"

"I think you're more involved in this than you're letting us know, and I think if anyone's holding back information, it's you."

Her hands wrought together, though no other part of her body moved. "You want to accuse me publicly?"

"No."

"Then the point, please."

"I'm here to find two missing children. Two children who _were _under your care." He eyed her meaningfully. "I'm just giving you fair warning. If you're hiding something, eventually the truth will come out. It always does. So if you've been dishonest with us in any way, now is the time to come clean for your sake, and for the sake of this orphanage."

Her voice was like ice. "Have you ever taken lessons in Catechism, Agent Fitzgerald?"

"I don't see where that has anything to do with my questions-"

"Because if you did," she bit. "You would understand that I have taken an oath before God to protect the children in my care, to help those in need, and to give of myself no matter what the cost. I've taken a vow of obedience. With that vow comes responsibilities to those around me. That might not mean a lot to some people, but it means a lot to me."

Martin's gaze softened at her words, but his message stayed the same. "Sometimes even the most well-intending of people find themselves in situations where the most solemn vows have to be sacrificed."

"And what do _you _know about my vows?"

"I know you're tired. I know you're questioning your faith."

Her eyes darkened. "You think you know who I am? After only having met me four hours ago?"

"No, I'm just not sure who to trust here."

"Trust Danny," she said softly. "Like you always have."

Martin suddenly frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

A voice beckoned for her from down the hall. Both of them looked towards the sound. In an instant, her disposition changed to one of complete authority. Sr. Rachel regarded Martin once more. "Excuse me," she said. "I have responsibilities to attend to."

Martin nodded, and the nun marched down the hallway to where the voice had hailed for her. When she was safely out of sight, Martin brought up his phone and hit speed-dial.

His superior's voice answered. "Agent Malone."

"I just finished talking with Sr. Corrione."

"How'd it go?"

"About as well as my last root canal. You were right. She didn't take it very well."

"You spooked her?"

"I shook her."

"Okay," Jack said. "Let's see what falls out."


	34. Confessional

Whooo.... This chapter took a lot out of me. Thanks for your patience everybody. Hehe, and thanks for the reviews. Anmodo, here's some more lovin' from me. Mariel, I was wondering where you went off to! Glad you're back and posting! I still need to review your story, that last chapter was great. Alright, enough out of me. Here's the story...

- - - - -

Danny Taylor was watching it happen. Kylie had started out so obstinate, so devil-may-care with a stilted attitude that would have done James Dean proud. Unfortunate for Kylie, she shared none of the famous actor's genes, nor his reserve. The brief look of terror upon her face had convinced him. Danny got up from behind the desk.

When Danny stood, Kylie screwed up her face in a grimace, tried to put back on the mask. "What are you talking about? I've been telling the truth since I got the hell in here."

But it was too late. The second Martin removed Sr. Rachel from the room, the farce ended. Despite Kylie's façade, she was just an eleven-year-old girl, alone in a confessional with an FBI agent… and it was starting to show.

"I'm sorry, Kylie, but you haven't been." Danny turned the wooden chair next to hers around to face her before sitting down. "And it sounds unnatural when you curse."

Kylie focused solely on the wallpaper in front of her. "Yeah? Who the fuck cares?" She tugged her pale blue hoodie closer around her. "There. That sound natural enough for you?"

"You're not fooling me." Danny arched his neck to find her eyes. "You're not Jordan, Kylie."

The corner of Kylie's mouth twitched back. The FBI had lie detectors at their disposal twenty-four hours a day, but Danny didn't need one. Anyone could see that she was panicking. "Just leave me alone."

"I can understand why you'd want that. If I were in your shoes, I'd want to leave, too. I'd want to get out of this room and forget everything that's happened."

Kylie's frown went deeper before she showed him her back. "Yeah, right," she muttered. "You don't know a thing about me."

"I know you admire Jordan. So much that you follow her around, right?"

Though Danny couldn't see it, her face had turned white. "You don't know me," Kylie repeated. "You don't know either of us."

"Maybe not." He gave her that much. "But that doesn't change the fact that all I want to do is help Jordan and Jason, who've been missing since last night."

Her back still facing him, her shoulders hunched closer around her face. The quiet around them built and built until Kylie spoke again. "I don't have to talk to you."

"You're right. You don't." Danny's voice grew more intense. "But if you don't tell me what you know, we may never find them. Terrible things will keep happening to them, and we won't be able to stop it."

Kylie flicked her blonde hair in the way of her face and kept her back to Danny.

Even though he couldn't see her face, he kept talking. "I may not know everything that's been going on here, and I may not know everything that's been going on with Jordan. But I made a promise to be there for her. I made a promise to be here for all the kids in this orphanage since the day I got here." Danny drew nearer. "I failed at that. That's where I'm guilty. But Jason is an innocent in all this. He's just a little three-year-old boy who cannot defend himself."

A sliver of Kylie's face peeked out from behind her shoulder.

Danny leaned forward to whisper to her. "Whatever is said here is between you and me. _That's _why I sent Sr. Rachel out of the room. I'm not here to get you in trouble. All I want to do is bring them home."

At first nothing happened. Kylie appeared to be immune to every word he'd said. But slowly, like a quarter sinking to the bottom of a swimming pool, his words took their toll. A tear leaked out from the corner of her eye before her shoulders began to tremble. She sniffed back to try to curb her sobs, but the tears just kept coming.

It took all of Danny's will power to keep a straight, solemn face as he watched the girl break down. Her voice was enough to break a heart in two. "I promised not to tell anyone."

Reaching behind himself, Danny grabbed a box of Kleenex off the desk. As Kylie struggled to brush the tears from her eyes, he held the box forward.

For the first time since she entered the room, she looked up into his eyes. Growing suddenly silent, her reddened eyes took him in, estimating him. Making her decision, she took a tissue from him and brought it to her nose.

- - - - -

Holding a collection of crumpled tissues in her small hands, Kylie stared down at the carpet. Danny let her take her time. Rushing her and demanding answers at this juncture would be pointless. Kylie would tell him at her own pace.

She sipped on the glass of water he'd given her from a pitcher on the table before she finally began to speak. "The police brought me here." Though the words were whispered, the contrast of the silent room lent them volume. "I met Sr. Rachel. She seemed alright. But Jordan was the one I liked the most. She was like magic, you know? Nothing got to her. All the stupid stuff – the bedtimes, afternoon mass, going to school. Sometimes she went; sometimes she didn't. She did whatever she wanted. I wanted to learn how to be like her. So one day, I followed her out of the building. I wanted to see where she went all the time…"

Kylie's voice was calm and detached. But in actuality, she felt the experience happening all over again, as if someone had flicked on a movie projector and she was watching it take place before her very eyes…

_…Fallen leaves crunched under Kylie's feet, reminding her of potato chips as she darted down the sidewalk. Her breath puffed out in clouds of mist, visible against the cold. It was colder than it looked outside, and her spring jacket provided little warmth against the afternoon wind. Part of her wanted to go back, but that was the part she quieted. She'd gone this far; she wasn't about to turn back now. Her legs scurried to keep up with Jordan whose strong strides were leading her away from the convent and into the streets of the South Bronx._

_Kylie kept waiting for Jordan to see her, to turn around and catch her trailing behind. But apparently, the teenage girl had other things on her mind. Jordan walked with purpose block after block, until an abandoned, run-down factory loomed into view. Smoke wafted around the factory, giving it a living, breathing quality. Whether fear or the cold, a shiver ran through Kylie's body at the sight of it. Everything about the building seemed to warn her._

_Turn back now._

_But Kylie's curiosity was no match for her conscience. She had to see where Jordan was going every day, and what was keeping her from school._

_Jordan clanked her Reeboks up a rusty set of metal steps outside the back of the factory and climbed in through a broken window on the third floor. A few minutes later, Kylie followed. Kylie kept herself at perfect length away from Jordan. She shadowed her all the way through a series of corridors and dark hallways, their only lanterns shards of light seeping through cracks in the windows and brick walls._

_She followed until fluorescent lights glowed in the distance. When Jordan padded down a flight of wooden stairs, Kylie stayed crouched in a corner at the top._

_"Hey," Jordan called._

_"Hey." The voice that answered was male._

_Kylie crept to the start of the stairs and peeked down. When she did, she swallowed her gasp. Lights shone down upon tables filled to the brim. Tens upon hundreds of plastic bags of pure white powder lay piled in lines of production. Several large men who looked like they could handle themselves moved about the station, working on packaging their goods. Kylie held a hand to cover her mouth as Jordan strode up to a man standing at a desk off to the side. He was obviously the one in charge._

_"You got something for me?" she asked._

_The man in his thirties smiled at her. He picked up a bag of cocaine and tossed it to her. Jordan caught it. "203 Baker Street. And make it snappy. He doesn't like to be kept waiting."_

_Jordan smirked, held up the bag for a moment, and relinquished it inside her tote bag. "Patience is a virtue, huh?"_

_"Yeah. And one I don't have." He pointed up to the stairs. "You better get going if you know what's-" Words left him as his eyes focused on their intruder. Kylie tried to make herself invisible, but it didn't work. Disbelief and then anger bled into the drug dealer's eyes. "Hey!" he shouted. Kylie took to her feet, dashing back down the corridor. Footsteps pounded up the stairs after her. She got a good twenty feet before one of the huge men from downstairs brought her crashing down to the ground._

_Kylie screamed, hauled back, and kicked her attacker right in the pants. With a high-pitched cry, the man doubled over, tears filling his eyes. Her victory, however, was short-lived. Two other men grabbed her by the arms before she could climb to her feet. Her blonde hair falling in front of her eyes, Kylie kicked and flailed her legs, but her struggle was in vain. In no time at all, they had her back downstairs and held her outward to the drug dealer in charge._

_The man frowned. "What's this?" he demanded._

_One of the men answered. "She was in the back, snooping around."_

_He didn't look happy to hear that. "Well, well, well. How 'bout that…"_

_Tears pouring from her eyes, she continued in her struggle. "Let me go!"_

_Beside him, Jordan's mouth dropped open. "Kylie?"_

_The drug dealer turned to Jordan with beady eyes. "You know this kid?"_

_Kylie screamed, "Jordan, get them off of me!"_

_Jordan's chest rose up and down, before she swallowed backwards in fear. "I know her from school," she stammered. "She must have followed me-"_

_The drug dealer stepped forward. "What have I told you about outsiders?" Dumbstruck by fear, Jordan had no response. He looked back at Kylie. "This one homeless, too?"_

_"Bryce, leave her alone. She's only been here a week." _

_Turning around, Bryce addressed the men holding Kylie in place. "Take her outside, boys." The third man, limping down the stairs, looked especially pleased at the order. "Show her what happens to nosy orphans who don't mind their own business."_

_When Kylie howled in protest, Jordan ran forward and grabbed Bryce's arm. "No!"_

_His face teeming with rage, Bryce hauled back and struck Jordan hard against the face. Jordan went down, her eyes clenching at the pain. Hysterical, Kylie wailed and fought with all her might to break free of their grasp._

_Bryce ordered them once more. "Get rid of this."_

_"No!" Though disoriented from the blow, Jordan scrambled back up to her feet. "No, you can't do that!"_

_The man laughed, more shocked than angered by her statement. "I can do whatever the fuck I want."_

_The Jordan Kylie thought she knew disappeared. Running in between Bryce and Kylie, Jordan put up her hands. "I'll do whatever you want, Bryce. Anything. Just let her go."_

_"Oh, shut up," Bryce said, losing interest with the situation. He turned around to pick up a wad of money from his desk. He began to count it. "Why would I want the two cents you have to your name when I have thousands coming in every day? And the boys?" He snickered to them. "They already have all the fun they'll need for the afternoon with this one."_

_Jordan didn't back down. "I'll pay you. I'll run for you for free until the debt is paid. You get the whole profit, everything that comes in."_

_Bryce stopped in his stride. Though his back was turned to her, she could see he was considering her offer. He could use that kind of free labor…and Jordan knew it. He turned around. "Yeah? And what's to stop Goldilocks here from telling every cop in the greater New York area about my business here?"_

_"I'll take care of it."_

_Bryce sneered and started to say something._

_Jordan cut him off. "I said, I'll take care of it."_

_"I swear!" Kylie shouted. "I swear I won't tell anyone!" She was crying heavily now. "I swear…"_

_Frowning, Bryce looked from Jordan to Kylie, and back again. Bryce strode up to Kylie, so close that she could smell his breath. "If she squeals, I'll send my boys here to finish the job…" He turned back to Jordan. "And as for you-"_

_"I know. I know," Jordan said. "It'll be my ass."_

_Bryce nodded. Kylie could almost read his mind. Free labor for as long as he decided, and one less body to bag. With one glance to the men holding her, Kylie was dropped back down to her feet. Weeping, she took off and ran back up the stairs. She could still hear Bryce lecturing Jordan. "You better get used to making deliveries on time. Because your ass is mine free of charge for the next four nights. Now go drop that off, while you've still got the legs to carry you…"…_

All throughout her disclosure, her voice kept its monotone quality as if somehow disconnected from the tears she was crying. Kylie used most of the tissues in the box to brush away the two streams that ran down her cheeks, but the strands of blonde hair on either side of her face told the truth. They clung to her red cheeks, soaked with the tears.

Danny listened, feeling his chest grow tighter and tighter with every turn the story took. There was no fooling himself now. Jordan had been involved with dangerous people, people so dangerous that they nearly took Kylie's life…

"Jordan made me swear never to tell anyone," she said, still staring blankly into the carpet of the confessional. "I swore I would never tell anyone…"

Danny leaned forward. "And you think these are the people who took Jordan."

"No." For the first time since she had begun talking, her voice cracked. "They're the ones who took Jason."

Danny's mouth fell open in surprise. "Jason…?"

Though no one was touching her, Kylie's face twisted in pain. "I saw Bryce break in last night. I freaked out. I ran to my room and locked the door. I was so scared… I just stayed under the bed. I thought he changed his mind and was coming back t-to finish the job..." She sniffed back, overcome by her cowardice. "But then, he went into Jason's room instead. When the noise stopped, I went to go check on him. But Jason was already gone…"

Danny moved to the edge of his seat. "Kylie…"

"I'm so sorry." She looked up at him as the sobs returned. "God, I'm so sorry…"

"Kylie," he said again. He held a hand against her back. "In a minute, I'll be able to talk to you about this. I'll stay here as long as you need me to, and we'll get you whatever help you need. But right now, I need to help Jason. Can you tell me where that factory is?"

Sniffing backwards, Kylie nodded her head. "Yes."

"You can give me an exact location?"

"Yes."

Danny closed his eyes in a silent prayer of thanks. He gently squeezed her shoulder. "Thank you." Danny found a pen and notepad in the desk behind him and took down every word she said.


	35. 14 Hours Missing

Wow, so much to tell.... This story keep taking one turn after another. It's both liberating and surprising. It's all I can do to keep up with it!

andmodo: not at all! your writing's spectacular. no doubting yourself. you've got raging talent.

mariel: awesome - i'm doing my best to rid myself of the 'alrights', but it's like a disease i tell ya! they're everywhere!  
  
katerina: hello, and thank you! so glad you like it so far! 

(x)

The door burst open, and Danny stalked forward from the library.

Martin sprung from his position against the wall. He didn't need to ask. He could see it in Danny already. "You got it."

Danny held up a piece of paper. "Twelfth and the Boulevard. There's an old factory up there past the bridge." From there Danny stormed down the hallway. In the most concise nature he repeated the highlights of Kylie's encounter with Layman and what she saw the night of Jason's disappearance. They had on their coats by the time Danny finished. "He broke in here and grabbed Jason before anyone could stop him."

Martin checked the automatic at his side. "He must have thought he could draw out Jordan by kidnapping her brother."

"Yeah, and it looks like it worked." He held his cell phone up to his ear. "Jack. It's Danny. One of the kids saw the break-in. I got Bryce Layman working a drug chain in the South Bronx." Danny gave him the directions in the same clipped tone he used with Martin. "All right. We'll meet you there."

The thoughts that rattled Danny's brain numbered the stars, but one stopped him in his tracks. "Rachel." He looked down the hallway before turning to Martin. "Where's-"

"I'm here," she called. Walking double-time, Sr. Rachel rounded the corner and met them at the door to the porch. "What happened?"

"Kylie knows the dealer who Jordan was working for. He got Jason."

"What?" Her face contorted. "How-"

"There's no time. We're going after him. I left Kylie in the other room." Looking at her distressed face, his voice softened the second time around. "She needs you. I'll be back."

By the time Rachel nodded, he and Martin were out the door and into the parking lot. In seconds the car doors shut, and the Stratus whirled to life. Taking to the streets, Danny dialed a number into his cell. He still had one more person to call.

(x)

Jack and Samantha were on the expressway when they got Danny's call. Jack placed his cell back into his jacket pocket. "They got a location on Layman, running goods out of a factory in the South Bronx. He's got the three-year-old."

Samantha's eyebrows pent together. Though the circumstances had been all too possible, she'd hoped this one case would serve the exception. It would have been easy to become lost in the unspeakable things that could happen to a child in the hands of a drug dealer or what that kind of situation would mean for Danny Taylor. But Samantha Spade rarely did things the easy way. She turned to Jack with a resolve that came as naturally to her as the instinct to breathe. "All right," she said. "Let's do this."

Without instruction Samantha secured an FBI-issued siren onto the roof of the car. The light spun noiselessly, making their presence known by sight only, as so not to alert their perpetrators. Cars parted to the left and right of the highway, and Jack's legendary lead foot lived up to its name. Taking the nearest exit, he expertly navigated through the maze of streets and alleyways infamous to the South Bronx until their intersection came into view.

Jack's car slowed down and then suddenly accelerated. "There. That's it."

There was no question in Samantha's mind as to which factory Jack was heading for. Old, abandoned buildings were native to this section of New York, but one stood out amongst the rest. A monstrosity of a building domineered the skyline, set apart by its size and yet a complement to its surroundings by its cold gray exterior. Broken windows and soot beset the front, and an old faded signpost read 'Jasper's Mattress Warehouse'. Sure enough Jack took the most direct route to the factory.

As they drew nearer Samantha's hand instinctively felt for the automatic at her hip. Her eyes closed as she gripped the cold metal, a comfort conflicted. Though far from a religious woman something reminiscent of a prayer touched her mind.

Jack, who must have noticed, whispered. "You'll be fine."

Samantha's eyes opened. She purposely stared forward, away from his gaze. "I know."

Turning onto an ancient driveway, the car jostled over trenches of asphalt and undergrowth. They were there just in time to see Danny and Martin climb out of the Stratus. Throwing on the brake, Jack and Samantha bounded from the car and met them, arms at the ready.

Samantha couldn't read Jack's thoughts. But she could see him, taking in the entrance, the exits, all routes of possible escape, the risks, the dangers and pitfalls all in a heartbeat. His orders held airtight authority. "Sam, go with Danny. Take the back exit. Martin, you're with me. We'll take the front."

His orders were followed. Danny broke into a run for the opposite side of the building with Samantha trailing only a few feet behind. The first to reach the backdoor, Danny tried the handle once, twice. With a strength that belayed his features, he gave a swift kick, plowing the metal door down as if it had been made of straw.

Danny's body went in line with the doorway, and Samantha jutted in front of him, holding her gun out as if a torch to the darkness. She swerved to the left, to the right, and let out a breath. "Go," she whispered.

The two moved like that throughout abandoned rooms and two sets of stairs, two partners in a fluid dance bred from years of training and practice. But despite their expertise, their every footstep echoed throughout the dank and musty factory. Anxiety stemmed through Samantha's veins as if sent from an invisible IV. Her senses heightened, made alert by the unnatural silence.

Until something took its place.

Gunshots rang out in the top left section of the building. Samantha's eyes went wide, and before she knew what was happening, she reacted. Her feet pounded up the stairs in time with Danny's. As they reached the top, her gun pointed forward. She counted five standing and one man down.

"FBI!" she shouted. "Drop your weapons!"

She heard Martin demanding the same. The decades of dust that littered the floor had been kicked up and wafted into clouds, showing only silhouettes in its wake. Samantha's teeth gritted. _Goddammit, _she wanted to intone. She couldn't distinguish a thing.

A spark would be her only warning. A shot fired, and Samantha dove onto the ground into a tumble behind a metal support beam. Several rounds followed, and a piercing cry of pain sliced the air.

Bolting up to her feet, Samantha gripped her weapon. "This is the FBI," she reiterated. "Drop. Your. Weapons." She was smooth. She was cool. She was Samantha Spade, operating in the midst of her element.

She was scared shitless, and for the second time that day she found herself praying. But this time it wasn't for herself. It was for Jack, Martin, and Danny, all of whom had gone suddenly silent. Samantha felt the passing seconds prickle her body as real and thick as the sweat that gathered down her back and shoulders. Her breath raked against her throat, and she waited in torment for their voices.


	36. Admitting Defeat

Hey guys! Thanks for the reviews! lol Katerina, you're right. I am evil. But I'm so glad you all felt the tension of that one. It lets me know I'm doing my job! Here's the continuation.

Just a note! On Saturday, I am moving to Washington, D.C. to start a new job and go to grad school. So if I am slow at posting, there's a reason. ;) I hope everyone is doing well!

(x)

Martin took a cautious step forward, his Nordstroms crunching against broken glass. He heard Samantha calling for surrender. When no one moved, he shouted his refrain. "FBI. Put your weapons on the ground!"

Stalemate hung in the air, dense as the fog of dust and smoke that veiled their faces. The faint howl of police sirens cut through the silence, courtesy of the backup Danny called in from the car. It would be the deciding factor. A whimper of pain was quickly followed by the clamor of metal as the perpetrators' weapons found cement. Martin expelled a breath of relief. He rushed forward, grabbing the nearest thug by the shoulders. Martin pressed him up against the wall and went into procedure, checking him for weapons and informing him of his rights.

Around the back Samantha and Danny followed suit, cuffing their attackers. The sirens were deafening now, casting red and blue through the factory windows. Martin kept his elbow in the thug's back. "Where's the kid?"

"What?"

"Play stupid with me and I'll bury you. Jason Coliandri. Where is he?"

"Jason who?"

Martin took the man back from the wall and slammed him up against it. "Jason Coliandri! Now, c'mon. I know he's in here!"

The thug was starting to freak out. "Yo, man! Get a fucking grip! I don't have the first fucking idea what you're talking about!"

Beside them, Jack held a man back by the arms. Martin recognized him immediately. Over the past week, his mug shot had been all over the place. Bryce Layman writhed in pain. "My arm!" There was a click of the handcuffs, and Bryce let off a cry.

"My arm," he moaned. "You…You shot my fucking arm!"

Jack's voice cut him off. "Oh, yeah?" At first Martin thought he was seeing things. It was nothing, just a trick of the red lights of the police cars.

A dark red stain glistened off the left arm of Jack's gray trench coat. The coat's tweed bunched and frayed, dripping with red from where the bullet had left its tracks. Jack's face twisted in pain as he pushed the man forward with his good arm. "Then I returned the favor."

Bryce winced. "I need to get to a hospital."

Ignoring his plea, Jack bore down upon him. "Where're you keeping the kid?"

"What? What kid?"

"We already got your establishment, Layman. We've had your name for weeks. We have an eye-witness who saw you break into St. Luke's orphanage late last night." Martin watched as Jack squeezed the words out, the blood still wetting his coat. "You don't have much going for you. If I were you, I'd start cooperating."

Bryce stared forward. "I want a lawyer."

"We'll get to that. Where's Jason Coliandri?"

There was another pause, a longer one. "The hospital and a lawyer," he decided. "The law says I get both."

Jack leaned in closer, whispering right into his ear. "Take a look around you. You're bleeding all over yourself. You're standing in handcuffs. The coke in this place alone could fill a cruise liner. But that'll be the least of your worries. If we don't find this kid…if Jason Coliandri dies after you kidnapped him…you'll be charged with murder one-"

"I don't have any kid." He was breathing heavy now, which made sense, seeing as how the blood flowing from the wound in his arm doubled Jack's. "I want my lawyer."

Lights from approaching flashlights bounced off the walls, and a steady stream of NYPD's finest began to filter in through the openings to the room. Though there was plenty to preoccupy him, Martin's eyes couldn't leave Jack's arm. "Jack…are you alright?"

Jack gritted his teeth. "I'm fine. Find the kid."

Against his better judgment Martin turned away. Handing his thug off to the cops with a promise that they would talk later, Martin caught a glimpse of Danny and Samantha straying outward from the crime scene. He hurried to join them, hoping they had better news than he did.

(x)

Jack had played it off for as long as he could, but it wasn't long before the officers around him took notice.

The bullet had only grazed his shoulder. The blood that marked his jacket was already starting to clot. It was just a close call. He was lucky as hell; the doctors would tell him that. By day's end all he would have was a bloodstain and a scar, mere souvenirs left to serve as a warning to others.

But gratefulness came second. The pain pulsing from his left arm caused him to lean backward. The dizziness doubled his vision, and Jack clutched his bicep with his free hand. The next fifteen minutes happened without consulting him. Layman, still insisting that he be given a lawyer and medical attention, was carted away, and Jack was led by two E.M.T.'s in the opposite direction.

The three sets of stairs that took him to the ground level were long and painful, but soon sunlight bathed his shoulders. A cool, welcome breeze pushed back his hair, and fresh oxygen filled his lungs. In no time at all the E.M.T.'s had a wet cloth cooling his forehead and a tourniquet hugging his bicep. They sat Jack down in the ambulance, leaving the door open, as if they somehow knew he'd never agree to a stretcher.

An older attractive woman with short gray hair leaned down to check his blood pressure. "Anything you're allergic to?" she asked.

His wits returning, Jack patted his lips. "Just these bullets they keep tryin' to put in me."

She humored him with a chuckle. She typed furiously into the computer terminal next to her. His name appeared on the screen along with his lengthy medical history. "Ah, yes. You've been with us before, Special Agent Malone." After helping him remove his winter coat, she cut through the sleeve of his work shirt and began cleaning the wound. Jack took a look at it. It was nasty, but it didn't go deep.

She checked the computer terminal once more before continuing to treat him. "Third time's a charm?"

Jack raised his eyebrows before regarding the gash in his arm. "Not for me it isn't."

"Still haven't learned your lesson, huh?"

Few people had to audacity to ask Jack questions like that. It should have been irritating. Instead it was strangely refreshing. "Guess I haven't," he admitted.

An odd sort of smile crossed her face. "Sounds familiar," she said. "My husband's a cop." She spared a moment to glance at the factory behind them. "He might even be in there somewhere."

"Has he ever been shot?"

"Nope. And he won't." She winked. "As long as you keep getting in the way."

Jack would have smirked, but the ointment that burned his skin sent his mouth in a wince. "Yeah," he raked out. "I'll keep that in mind."

When he opened his eyes, a hefty man with disheveled white hair stood before him, leaning against the side of the ambulance. The two shared grim smiles before Detective Frank Sanders nodded to the bullet wound. "How you doin?"

"I've been better," Jack said dryly.

"What's the damage?"

The medical assistant rejoined. "Laceration of the left bicep. Tissue damage."

Rolling his eyes, Jack met Frank's stare. "Just a scratch. Did they find Jason?" At the question Jack expected a tremor, something, anything to prove how deeply this case was affecting him and his team. But his voice held steady, and his muscles kept their counsel.

If he'd reacted oddly in any way, Frank had missed it. "No. Not yet anyways. But they're taking the place apart, piece by piece. If he's up there, we'll find him."

Jack let out a heavy sigh, one part relief, two parts dread.

Frank continued. "We sent Layman to South Bronx General. We've got a team guarding his room, but he's yet to be questioned. We figured that might be a job the FBI would like to tackle first."

Jack blinked. The move was an accommodating one on Frank's part. One Jack could only respect. "We would. Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Just send him over to me when you're through with him. I've got some questions myself."

"I think that can be arranged."

Frank chewed on something, probably his gums. He looked up and then decided to ask, "How's Danny?"

"Professional. As usual, last I left him." Jack looked back up at the factory, shaking his head. "I didn't want to bring him there, but…the way things worked out I couldn't do it without him."

Frank backed away from the ambulance. "It happens."

"We'll see you at the hospital."

Frank nodded. The barlights on the ambulance flicked on before the engine came to life. The detective suddenly grinned. "Looks like you'll be the first one there." Frank gave him a lazy salute as two E.M.T.s clamped the backdoors shut.

Jack muttered under his breath, and the woman behind him chuckled softly. "Don't get your boxers in a twist, Agent Malone." She sat down across from him as if she was not an emergency medical assistant, but rather a woman ready to enjoy a nice quiet ride through the country. "Just let us do our job. From the sound of your case, it looks like you can use all the help you can get."

With the IV they'd given him dulling the pain in his arm, Jack leaned his head against the metal wall of the ambulance. With most cases Jack had seen, you needed more than all the help you could get. And even then sometimes it wasn't enough.

(x)

When Danny reacted to the shots being fired above them, he kept his cool. When Danny heard that Bryce wasn't talking, he kept his cool. When he heard that Jack had been shot, he kept his cool. There was reason to. Not everything was against them yet. Throughout the ordeal, the NYPD agreed to aid the FBI in their search and rescue. Detectives and cops on the beat came together with his Special Task Force for a comprehensive search that took over two hours and covered the whole of Jasper's Mattress Warehouse. Fifteen homeless men and women were found throughout the factory, most of whom could not speak a word of English, but swore that they had not seen Bryce Layman or a little boy once inside the factory.

Danny had kept his cool. But now, two hours later with no comprehensive evidence of the whereabouts of Jason Coliandri and no new information emerging, Danny's face had lost its color. Dirt and cobwebs smeared his suit, and cold sweat matted his already tousled black hair. His mouth was screwed up in a tight frown. He was still in the midst of searching relentlessly when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

He looked up to see Martin casting him a worried glance. "Danny…"

Danny shirked his shoulder out of Martin's hold. "C'mon. We keep looking. He could still be in here."

Harder this time. "Danny."

Danny halted in his tracks, keeping his back to Martin.

Martin shook his head. "We've combed the whole place twice. Not one person's seen him. If he were in here, we would have found him by now."

Danny bit the flesh of his lip. He stared forward, feeling his eyes water by the dust and fumes present in the factory. His hands formed two white fists. He hauled back and punched one into the metal support beam by his side. "Dammit," he rasped.

Whether by intuition or a stroke of genius, Martin left him alone to come to terms with the reality. Danny stood there for some time, eyes never blinking, the throbbing pain in his hand the least of his worries.


	37. Gone Away

"Patience is a virtue." And clearly one you all have! Grad school is phenomenal. I love D.C. I started work at a Children's Welfare Dept. recently, and I start seeing clients on Wednesday. Talk about pressure! But through it all, I found some time to write about Danny and the rest of WaT.  
  
white rose01, Kari, and Laura B - a pleasure to meet you. Thanks so much for reading. I'm so glad you're enjoying it so far!  
  
Mariel: The move DID go smoothly, so I guess I am posting sooner than later...though it's still later than planned. ;) Hehe, yeah Jack's so much fun to write down.  
  
Katerina: D.C.'s phenomenal. And the ending takes on a life of its own! I am merely a vessel which the story flows through. But I'll do my best. ;)  
  
anmodo: Questions will be answered, I promise. And I see you're writing a sequel! Good luck! I'll be looking forward to it.  
  
And now...back to the story...

(x)

Barlights flickered red and blue in turns against the factory walls as Danny Taylor stared off into space. His stomach had twisted itself into a knot and threatened to spew. Jason was gone. To where, Danny hadn't the first idea. He could be out in the cold, his three-year-old fingers frozen to the bone. He could be on a Greyhound bus, bound for some undisclosed location, forty-year-old molester at his side. He could be safe, hiding somewhere inside this factory. But more probably he was dead. His smiling photograph just another face amongst a sea of nameless corpses.

As he stood there trying to quell the nausea, the ground Danny stared at came into focus. A pair of ancient JcPenny's loafers scuffed up dust and came to a halt.

"Hey."

He looked up to find Detective Frank Sanders before him. The detective stared down at him with a look that infuriated Danny. It was pity. "How you holdin' up, kid?"

Danny looked away. He wasn't a kid. He never had been.

When it became apparent that Danny wasn't giving an answer, Frank cleared his throat. "Just thought I'd let you know, I appreciated the call. I'm not the type to overlook things like that. You've got NYPD on your side now, and we're gonna do everything we can do to help you in this case."

Danny sneered. He was FBI, and Frank wanted to reassure him that NYPD had his back? It brought the nausea back at full force. Frank's ego aside, his promises meant nothing to Danny. Sanders already had what he wanted. He had Layman, which was what he had been after in the first place.

"Nice to see that arrogant asshole streak's still alive and well, Frank." Danny elbowed past him, caring not a mouse turd whether Frank thought him rude or not.

Danny staggered through the crime scene. The factory walls blurred and skewed before his eyes. Thoughts raced through his mind like a train off its tracks. _Jason. Gone. Kidnapped. Dead. Only three-years-old…_ His face came together in a frown so tight that it was painful. But one thought seared through the rest.

_Layman._

Danny looked up with incensed eyes. Layman who kidnapped Jason. Layman who threatened to kill Kylie. Layman who struck Jordan across the face and ruined her life. Before he even knew what was happening, he'd picked up speed and was heading straight for Samantha and Martin who stood on the opposite side of the factory.

They were in the middle of conversation when Danny demanded, "Where is he?"

The two agents shared a glance. Samantha answered him. "They sent Jack to South Bronx General."

"No, I know where Jack is. Layman. Where'd they send him?"

"Same hospital," Martin let him know.

"Good that makes things easier. I want to talk to him."

Samantha sent another glance to Martin. Blinking, she stepped forward. "Danny, I don't think that's a good idea right now."

"No," Danny said. "This has gone on too long. I go talk to him, and I end this right now."

"That's your game plan. You're going to end this right now."

Danny clarified. "I'll make him talk."

There was a pause before Samantha asked. "And just how do you plan to do that?"

"You just bring me there. By the time I'm done with him I'll know exactly where Jason is."

Samantha frowned. "Am I dreaming?"

"What?"

"This conversation."

"What's _that _supposed to mean?"

Her voice was gentle and firm at the same time; she excelled at that. "Danny, stand back and listen to yourself. 'By the time you're done with him?' What are we supposed to think when we hear that?"

Danny's face twisted. "Oh, c'mon. You know me better than that. Don't pull this shit with me, Sam."

She disregarded the accusation. "Danny, I'm always going to tell you the truth. If we put you in a room with Bryce Layman, could you be objective in that room?" She widened her eyes. "Could you?"

Danny started to say something, and Samantha spoke overtop of him. "If he tells you something that you don't want to hear. That he pulled a gun on Jason. That he got rid of him somewhere outside the city. That he made a choice to harm that child. If he tells you those things, there will be no holding you back."

The words sobered him. Danny hadn't wanted them to, but they left him no choice in the matter. Samantha kept going. "We won't be able to control what you do in there. And neither will you." Emotion dipped into her speech. "I'm sorry, Danny. But you can't do this, not in the position you're in now."

"So I just wait around, right?" he asked, his voice cracking. "Just sit around. After he shoots Jack. After Layman takes my kids in the middle of the night."

Samantha fixed her eyes on Danny. "Your kids?"

Danny felt the color drain from his face. He looked at Samantha and then back at Martin. Their faces relayed the same message. With one slip, he'd proved their point. He was exactly what they believed him to be. An FBI agent with no objectivity seeking revenge.

Danny brought his hand up and ran it down his face. His palm filled, slick with sweat. Shaking his head, he took his keys out of his pocket. "I have to get out of here," he got out. Danny turned away, feeling the smoke and fumes of the factory like bricks on his chest.

As Danny headed towards the exit, he expected one of them to call back to him, to lend him some parting word. Neither one did. He hurried through the maze of the factory, desperate to reach the outside. When sunlight hit him, a gust of wind pushed back his hair. Danny opened his eyes, and he stared up at the sky to see gray clouds gathering in the distance.

He remembered a psychology course from undergrad. They told him the things that hurt – that really hurt in that deep-down gut-of-your-stomach way – were the ones that were usually true. Danny knew that Samantha was right. That was what hurt the most.

(x)

Martin stepped forward to chase down Danny, but Samantha held him back. Actually, she hadn't used any force at all. Touching the skin of his hand had the same reaction as yanking him backwards.

Martin sent her a befuddled glance. "Don't you think we should go after him?"

"No." Samantha kept her eyes trained on Danny's back. "He needs some time to be alone."

He watched as Danny rushed down the stairs and out of sight. Martin's sigh pressed out of his body. Martin didn't consider himself melodramatic, or even emotional really. But over the years he and Danny had gotten to be friends. It hurt to watch him go through the pain alone. He wanted to help, even though rationally he knew there was little he could do.

Martin arched his neck in the way of Sam's vision, earning her eye contact. He chose to help Sam instead. "How about you?" he asked. "Are you okay?"

It was obvious why Martin had asked. Jack had nearly lost more than a few hours in the field, and they all knew it. Samantha had a connection to Jack that Martin had come to begrudgingly accept. When something happened to one, in reality it was happening to both of them. It tended to frustrate him – that no matter how close he and Sam became, Jack would always matter more. But in truth, the jealousy could only go so far. Jack was the man Martin hoped to become. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't hate your idol. You could only become discouraged when you failed to be him.

For a moment, a deep sadness filled Samantha's face, but it washed away just as quickly. "I'm fine," she said. She smiled sadly. "After all it could have been worse, right?"

Martin nodded his agreement. The two began to walk towards the exit, side by side. "You said some amazing things back there," he said.

Samantha smirked. "So, I guess this means you _don't _think I'm a cold, success-driven workaholic?"

Martin smiled, amused. "Well I wouldn't go that far," he said. "But I was glad you were there. I don't think Danny would have listened to me. Not like he listened to you, anyway."

Samantha thought on that for a few moments before saying, "Danny won't listen to anyone right now. He won't until those kids are found." Her lips formed a frown. "_If _those kids are found."

"You think Layman killed them?"

"I think Layman doesn't want us to know what role he's playing."

Martin nodded. "Which is exactly why we need to find out." The doors opened, and the film of dust and smog that lined their lungs was replaced by cool fresh air. After taking a moment to appreciate it, Martin turned to Sam. "Ready to go see Jack?"

"Actually, I'm going to take a separate car," she said. She walked up to one of their company-issued Grand Marquis. "There's a stop I have to make."


	38. Shared Understanding

Oh my gosh, thank you so much for the reviews. I appreciate your involvement in and encouragement of this story more than you'll know. Mariel3, you're right I was cruel. ;) But I'll continue writing soon after I post this chapter! anmodo, Katerina1, whiterose01, asd, and Laura B - I'm so glad you approve!

(x)

When Danny got into his car, he had little idea as to where he was headed. The truth was that it didn't matter. What mattered was that he was out of there, out of the factory's suffocating fumes and away from the anger that would have stolen his sanity had he stayed any longer. He drove for a long time, through city streets that he knew as well as the lines of his face and down side streets that he had never seen before in his life. He drove aimlessly, all with the thoughts of Jason and Jordan running rampant through his mind. Perhaps it was the relentless thoughts of the children. Maybe it was his deep-seated need for the familiar. Either way, Danny wound up in the same place he always did when he found himself with nowhere else to go.

He parked the car alongside the curb in front of St. Luke's orphanage. A collection of leaves bristled against the ground, and a cold gale of wind kicked them up in tiny tornadoes around his feet. Shivering, he trudged up the steps to the entrance, clutching his coat close to his body. The door to the convent slammed behind him, bringing an abrupt end to the wind howling from outside. He removed his winter coat and stepped into the main section of the convent.

He walked as if in a dream, taking in the faded taupe-painted walls and the dime-a-dozen Monet-look-alikes that lined the hallway as if seeing them for the very first time. His work shoes clumped against the hard oak floorboards, echoing throughout the hallways. Danny wondered why he had never noticed the sound before, and then it hit him. The orphanage had never been this quiet before. The walls had gone eerily silent, as if every familiar and comforting sound had disappeared along with the Coliandris.

He turned the corner, and another set of footsteps contrasted his. Dignified, confident steps clip-clopped toward him and stopped. Danny raised his eyes, but he didn't need them to tell who was there.

Sr. Rachel stared at him, eyes widened, her mouth gaping open. Her short heels tapped softly, uncertainly against the wooden floor, until she was only inches away from his face. Her eyes looked up and then down his person before returning up again.

Danny glanced down, only now noticing his bedraggled suit and tie, caked in dirt and grime. The state of his clothes reminded him of those of a war survivor, or a homeless man after a long dirt-nap.

His appearance did nothing to deter her. Rachel reached up, nothing but compassion in her eyes. She didn't say a word, just ran a hand down the side of his cheek, wiping away the dust that lined his face.

At the simple gesture, it all became too much. Danny's breath shuddered, and he felt himself cave forward. She caught him, cradling him in her arms. Unfazed by the elements that lined his shirt, she rested her head against his chest.

Danny held her close. It took him awhile before he could tell her. "We didn't find him."

She didn't move, only whispered, "It's not your fault."

Rachel was sincere; she even whispered for effect. But her words fell uselessly upon his ears. For Danny to find comfort in words, he first had to believe they were true.

(x)

A long time passed while Danny held Rachel in his arms. Whether she knew it or not (and Danny suspected she did), her presence was the only thing that could console him. He had realized that it was possible. It was possible that he may never see Jordan or Jason alive again, and the onset of that had been terrifying.

When he saw Layman, when he saw Jason's kidnapper, the fury had spread like wildfire through his body. He had wanted to kill Layman, to destroy him in the same way he'd destroyed the orphanage. Luckily, Samantha had prevented that. But after her intervention, the rational part of Danny Taylor had realized that there were few people who would understand what he was going through. Samantha, Martin, Vivian, and Jack. They could try to understand. Hell, maybe they did, but not in the way Danny needed them to.

With anyone else but Rachel, he would have had to explain himself. He would have to start from the beginning. His listeners would have demanded details, a complex description of his love for the children, in order to understand his loyalty to them.

With Rachel all he had to do was walk through the door. Explanations were needless. Her devotion to the children was the only one that could contend with his own, and that connection between them had been the only thing to temper his sanity.

It had taken awhile, but Danny could feel his body coming to terms with the trauma. He was breathing more clearly now, and the madness that had threatened to claim him had passed.

Rachel must have noticed it too, because together they eased out of each other's arms. When Danny's arms went completely lax, Rachel squeezed him tightly one more time. She let go, and looked up, offering him a brave smile.

Danny loved her for it. Barely able to lift the corners of his lips, he asked. "How's Kylie?"

Rachel's eyes darted to the side. She motioned for Danny to follow her. "Come see for yourself."

(x)

A bulge of a body stirred and then went still underneath a ratty pink blanket. At Kylie's doorway, Sr. Rachel and Danny stood, watching her sleep. The little girl slept fitfully, disturbed dreams keeping her limbs in activity.

They spoke in whispers as so not to wake her. "She was exhausted," Rachel told him. "She could barely make it up the stairs."

The news didn't surprise him. "It'll be that way for a while. The things we talked about were enough to make a grown man break into tears."

Rachel nodded. "Emotional breakdown. The great equalizer."

Danny couldn't take his eyes off of Kylie. "She's so brave," he marveled. "She put aside her own fears and told me everything, from beginning to end."

"I know. I told her you'd be able to talk things over with her in the next few days," Rachel said. "You're the first person she's opened up to. Chances are she'll do it again."

"I'll make the time. I'll talk to her for as long as she wants, but we both know that's not going to be enough. What else can we do for her?"

"I've got her signed up for counseling at the children's center with Mary Rogers."

"Never heard that name before. What's Mary Roger's story?"

"She's dealt with cases like these since she started work there in '85." Rachel paused for emphasis. "She's good."

Sr. Rachel wasn't the type to give empty compliments. Her approval spoke volumes. "Okay," Danny said. "Also, we have to let the other kids know what's going on. The more we involve them the better. Trust grows like that."

"Right." Sr. Rachel and Danny spent a few minutes looking over Kylie until she was sleeping soundly. Silently closing the door, Rachel started down the hallway with Danny beside her. "The administration paid a visit after you left."

Danny's lips drew together in a pensive frown before he turned to her. "What'd they have to say?"

"I have two weeks."

Danny's eyes closed involuntarily. There it was – the deadline. The reality of their situation began to amass around him anew.

She continued in a voice made detached by legal jargon. "In two weeks, I get an official hearing. They'll send over their garden variety of specialists. They'll investigate, have their committees, and then…" She let out a deep sigh. "Then, they'll decide whether I'm qualified to be running this orphanage."

Danny ran a hand down his face. Too many thoughts construed in his mind for him to offer any real solutions. "What are you going to do?" he asked.

Rachel shrugged. "The only thing I can do. I'm going to raise my children. I'm going to be a vessel of the truth, and I'm going to pray to my God."

Hearing her strong voice, her simple plan, and her courage birthed a smile on his face. "They don't make ones like you anymore, Rachel," Danny said. "You ought to know that."

It earned its appropriate reaction – a smile. It was followed by her sarcastic laugh. "Yeah, tell that to your friend, Martin Fitzgerald."

Danny's face quirked in confusion…and then amusement. "I take it you two had an 'altercation' without me."

"That we did," Rachel agreed. "He _certainly _was not impressed with me."

"Impossible."

"It's true. He did not approve of my methods."

To that Danny asked, "What did you think about him?"

"First impression? Arrogant. Self-righteous. Completely convinced of his own perceptions…" Her smile edged to the side. "But if he wasn't so overconfident and judgmental, I'd think he was kinda cute."

Disgust and disbelief melded together on his face. "You've got to be kidding me."

"I'm serious!"

Danny rolled his eyes. "You need to get out more."

"You first."

There was a long pause that probably shouldn't have been there. "No," he said softly. His eyes took in the walls surrounding them before they fell upon Rachel. "I like it too much here."

Rachel's mouth hung open for the shortest second. Likewise, it took her a few moments to find an answer. "Maybe that's something we could learn to live with."

Danny's smile returned. Then suddenly, as if someone had suddenly flipped on an internal switch, he looked down at his watch and noticed the time. Rachel had seen him check his watch, and he looked to her apologetically. "You know I have to go."

"'When you play in the streets, that's part of the game. I know that. Just don't ask me to like it.'"

Danny thought a moment. "Casablanca?"

"Dick Tracy."

"I repeat. You need to get out more."

Rachel tried to smile, but it appeared she'd grown too tired. "When will you be back?"

"Whenever I can. Whenever I find out more."

It was the best answer she was going to get. "You have my number." Danny started to walk away, but Rachel called out to him once more. "Danny, about the other night…when I hung up on you…"

He turned to face her.

Rachel clammed up. "I…"

Danny lent her a knowing glance. "It's okay," he said. "I think we both understand."

Her shoulders deflated their anxiety, and Rachel nodded, drunk with relief. They did both understand. If nothing else, they had that going for them. Sending her one last smile, Danny left the convent with the strength Rachel never denied him. He got into his car, feeling more prepared to confront reality and able to interact with his team once more.


	39. Being There

I wrote this chapter at work today, and I'm posting it from work. (yay!) I'm so glad that you all are enjoying Sr. Rachel and her relationship with Danny! Thanks for voicing that; it felt good to read it. Their relationship is natural, and I like that a lot.

Well, enough out of me, here's the next chapter...

(x)

Vivian Johnson kept her lips pressed tightly together. She did this, so that she wouldn't scream at the top of her lungs into the receiving end of the telephone.

"Yes, I know that this comes at a very inopportune time… Yes, I am _fully _aware of the events of the past twelve hours." Vivian's lips curled as the woman she was speaking to rattled on over the phone. "Ma'am, I'm sorry. I don't care if Northeast Detention's found the seventh sign of the Apocalypse, and it's headed right this way. I need your phone records, and I need them _promptly,_ or a young girl and her brother may never be found."

At about the same time, Danny Taylor silently entered into the main office room through its gleaming glass doors. Propped up in her swivel chair, Vivian could only stare forward, unable to see Danny enter behind her. Positioning himself by the edge of the doorway, he watched as Vivian heaved a most impatient sigh.

She continued to try to reason with the person on the other end of the phone line. "You can call your supervisor all you like, but I'm afraid he and I already have a working relationship." She nodded. "Yes, I've worked with Richard Banes. Yes, along with his lovely wife, Jessica. Would you like to see the paperwork?"

After a short pause, the tone of the voice changed, adopting a much more cooperative quality. Vivian's smile reigned triumphant. "I thought that might make a difference. Tell Richard I said hello. Thank you…"

The phone slammed down, resounding with a 'briing' from its weight on the receiver. Vivian muttered to herself about 'goddamned bureaucracies' and something about society as a whole.

Danny walked up from behind. "Good to see I haven't missed anything while I've been away."

Vivian stared up at him over spectacles balanced on the brim of her nose. "Only an award-winning performance."

"Ah. So I take it you do _not_ have a long-standing working relationship with Mr. Banes and his lovely wife, Jessica."

"All depends how you fudge it. I met Richard and Jessica once at a joint-office party. Then, surprise. I see his full name written on the brochure for Northeastern under 'supervisor.'"

"Good work. I take it they're faxing the phone records."

"Within the hour."

"God forbid I am ever on the opposite end of your phone line."

"You'd last about as long as the rest."

"Two minutes maybe?"

"Please. Not even."

They all had the office banter to fall back on. It was what got them through the job with their lives in tact, but Vivian was rarely one to hide behind its veneer. The humor between them faded as quickly as it had come. Danny just happened to be the first to acknowledge it.

He crossed his arms as he leaned back against his desk. "You heard about Jack."

Vivian rested her hand on her chin before saying. "I did." She brought down her hand to remove her glasses. "I also heard that he'll pull through."

Danny nodded his confirmation. "He'll be checked out at the latest by midnight tonight."

Vivian shook her head. Danny watched her as she lost herself in thought. She went deep, deep down, and then with a breath, re-surfaced to the situation at hand.

She focused on him. "And what about Danny Taylor?"

He rolled his eyes and muttered, "What about Danny Taylor?"

Vivian made what she often referred to as a 'thinking noise.' "I'm just wondering how he's doing. He looks like he might have had a meltdown."

"Samantha told you."

"Your face told me. I haven't seen your face like that since Claire De Lune's miraculous return to her father." Danny sent her a warning glance, and Vivian put up her hands. "And until now, I've never said a word about that either."

"Any reason that you felt the sudden need to dig up ancient history?"

"I thought it might help to know that I care about what's happening to you. I watched what happened to you with Claire. That was your hardest case. And this case means worlds more than that one ever could."

Danny stopped in his tracks, part of him barely believing that Vivian had had the nerve to say what she did. Part of him was angry she had. But Danny hadn't the energy to hold onto anger, not now. He felt his shoulders sag forward. Any defense mechanisms he had left dissipated, like a last puff of smoke in the wind.

For a rare moment, Danny's voice held nothing but its frailty. "If you were hoping for some kind of divine moment of inspiration where I break down and sobbingly tell you my whole life story, you're in it now. You could probably say one or two words right now, and I'd be there. I'd be a complete mess, and you'd learn every single thing about me." Danny turned his reddened, tired eyes to hers. "But if you could hold off for just a little while and save this all for later, we might be able to go through these phone records. And we might actually find out what happened to Jordan Coliandri."

Vivian spent a good moment taking him in, eyes, words and all. She was a woman who almost always knew instinctually what needed to happen at any given moment. This moment was no exception. "I've already gotten Northeastern to raise their arms in surrender. I'm gonna need you to call your friend, Sr. Rachel, and get me the lines to St. Luke's."

With a short yet grateful smile, Danny instantly had his cell phone out and up to his ear. "That I can do." He'd already hit speed dial. "Hi, Rachel… Yeah, I know. You just can't get rid of me…"

(x)

Jack Malone hated hospitals, especially when he was admitted into them. The food, the waiting, the sterilized atmosphere, the consistent lack of answers to questions. He'd detested it all for as long as he could remember. However, when it came down to it, he probably hated hospitals for the same reasons that he hated most bureaucracies. What the doctors and nurses said, basically went. That kind of absolute control bothered Jack the way a snake or yellow jacket bothered most people. You couldn't really make it go away, not without putting yourself in danger. You could only wait it out and hope that it would go along its merry way, giving you no trouble for your being there.

And speaking of 'being there', Jack had had no luck in contacting his wife. The hospital made the first call, when he'd been admitted into the emergency room. After that, Jack had placed two calls on his cell phone. One to their home phone, explaining the situation and asking her not to worry. As he said before, it was just a scratch. Then, he'd left another message on her work line, just in case.

It wasn't that Jack had wanted to be coddled, far from it. But sometimes, especially when realizing just how instantly your life can be taken from you at any given moment, he wanted family. He wanted to be cared about, to have it all mean something. In the message, Jack had told Marie not to worry, but that hadn't been what he'd wanted. He did want someone to worry, and if nothing else, Marie rarely disappointed him in that department.

At that moment the door to his hospital room clicked open, and for a split second, Jack perked, wondering if in fact Maria would walk through the door.

Instead it was Sam, clad in her usual business slacks and sleeveless shirt that fit her form so well. After letting out a deep breath, Jack analyzed his first emotional reaction. Had it been relief he'd felt upon seeing her? Maybe not, but it was something close.

Something rested against her shoulder. Jack realized it to be a garment bag upon further inspection.

The door clicked shut behind her. Samantha stood, tilting her head to the side, causing her blonde strands to slide off her shoulder and in line with her eyes. His body didn't shiver, but under different circumstances, it would have. The simple mannerism carried with it the hundreds of other instances in which she'd made the same endearing gesture.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey."

Samantha zoned in on his left bicep to see the sleeve of his work shirt torn to make room for the bandage. Her lip quivered. Losing all resolve, she rushed forward, letting the garment bag drop to the ground. Jack caught her in his arms and held her there. He rubbed her back and whispered comforting lines that he had used before.

About how he would be fine and about how everything would be okay.


	40. The Wager

Wow. Chapter 40. Finally, right? First off, let me assure you that I had no plans of waiting this long for an update. But let me tell you, graduate school and working full time leave little room for writing. However, my complete love for without a trace and for this story keeps me going. Sorry it took so long, guys! Hopefully, the next update will be soon...... 

(x)

As Jack held Samantha in his arms, he realized as he had many times before, that they belonged together. Jack could have made a living out of denying the fact. He did actually, if you thought about it. But at the end of the day, it was the truth, and that really was all there was to it. Their bodies and hearts had been designed for one another. To hold each other, and to make the pain bearable – for moments just like this.

Unfortunately, as Jack had come to learn, just because they had been designed for each other did not mean that they could be together. Jack broke the embrace. He hadn't wanted to. It was just something that had to happen, for a multitude of reasons.

Samantha pulled away in turn, but her brown eyes remained locked upon his. Tears had flowed down, sending her mascara in black tracks against her cheeks. Staring up at him, she forced out a laugh, and Jack knew why. If she hadn't laughed just then, she would have cried all over again.

In a gentle motion, Jack brushed away her tears. Samantha caught his hand mid-brush and pressed it against her cheek. She kissed it, before allowing him to pull away once more. In turn, Jack looked to the bandage hugging his bicep. Samantha followed his gaze and zeroed in on the wound. Jack felt a tug at his heart as she touched her fingers against it.

As Samantha stared at it, her shoulders sunk low. Jack never could tell exactly what Samantha was thinking. But if he had to wager, he'd guess she was thinking about the same thing he had been during the past two hours. How few inches there were between his bicep and his heart.

She blinked, regaining something of her composure. "How's it feeling?" she asked.

"Fantastic."

Samantha's gaze darkened. "Jack."

"It'll heal." Jack watched Samantha's lips part open, like she wanted to say something. Like she wanted to address… He moved quickly. "Did you find Jason?"

Samantha's face took on a new expression. Her intimacy towards him smoothly receded to birth only professionalism. The transition was effortless. It was a balancing act they had become experts in performing. "No," she said. "We searched the whole factory, top to bottom. When I left, forensics was still searching through the fingerprints. Layman's were all over the place, but there was no sign of Jason's."

"You'd think there'd be something." Jack sighed, taking a moment to think. "The way I see it, that leaves us with two options."

"Either Layman's telling the truth…"

"Or he got rid of Jason before he ever reached the factory."

"I have my money on the latter."

"You're not the only one." Jack frowned pensively, before he looked up again. "How did Danny take it?"

Samantha hesitated. Jack shoulders went down. In her silence, she'd said everything he was hoping not to hear. Goddamnit, he thought. Jack knew he should have held Danny back. He told him not to get involved. Why hadn't he stopped Danny from going into the factory when he'd had the chance?

Another voice spoke for him. A conscience of some sort that Jack had never quite been able to quiet, no matter what the years had done to him. It closed his eyes.

_Because he belonged there… Because if it had happened to you, nothing would have stopped you from going to that factory to find those kids…_

Jack's eyes opened. "How bad was it?"

"It wasn't pretty. Danny kept demanding that he needed to talk to Layman. That he was the only one who could find Jason. It looked like he could barely see straight."

"Where is he now?"

"We're not sure. He took off…"

Jack groaned.

Samantha shook her head. "I hate to say it, Jack. But the way things were going, it was better he wasn't there."

Jack didn't like what he was hearing. It was hard enough trying to locate every person the Bureau of Investigations told them to find, without having to worry about where his agents were, too. However, a lucid sequence of thoughts reassured him. He trusted Samantha's judgment. He hadn't been there to see how bad Danny had taken it. After all that had happened, maybe what Danny really needed was to blow off some steam.

For now, that was all he could wager. "Let's hope so," he said.

Samantha nodded. They looked at each other, their wavelength complete. Samantha took in a deep breath and leaned against the medicine cabinet across from him. "Where do we go from here?"

"From here? I need you to go work with Viv. I got a call from her, and she's been playing phone tag for the past eight hours straight. If she goes solo much longer, I'll have to call in a medical team with a straight jacket."

Samantha smirked. "For you or for her?"

"Take your pick," he said dryly. "We may all need them with the way this case is going."

At the comment, Samantha eyed him with that knowing look she so often possessed. Jack stopped. He could barely believe he'd said it like that. With Samantha, it was like that. He found himself speaking his mind, in ways he never intended.

He didn't know what to say to explain himself, so he kept it honest. "There's just so much riding on this case," he breathed out. "It's got me worried. You know?"

Samantha nodded. She did know, and at the moment there was no painkiller more powerful than that. "Just do us all a favor, Jack," she said. "Don't forget to worry about yourself right now."

Jack rolled his eyes. Yeah. Because they all knew, _that _was happening. He reverted back to his thoughts on the case. "I've got enough to worry about. I can't involve Danny any further. Not after what you've just told me."

Samantha squinted. "That's going to make things difficult…"

"I feel like I'm punishing him."

"It's not a punishment," Samantha stressed. "It's just…the only way…"

"To do our job," Jack finished for her.

Samantha nodded. "To tell the truth, I'm surprised he hasn't broken protocol. I know I probably would with a case like this."

At the statement, Jack took pride in both his agent and himself. Jack had expected Danny to go wild with this case. Love makes you do that. Fear makes you do that, and Danny had an over-abundance of both. But Danny had kept his word. That said much of Danny's respect for Jack and for the system, and even more of Danny's character.

Jack frowned. But respect and character couldn't save you when your world fell apart. Jack knew. He'd been there…

"You're making that face."

Jack blinked, to find Samantha smiling endearingly.

Jack smiled back. "What face?"

"The face you make, when you're starting to figure it out."

"Yeah. I wish." Jack averted his eyes. They were in need of a distraction. His eyes found one lying in place on the floor. "What's in the bag?"

"Oh." Samantha walked over to where she had discarded the bag onto the floor of the hospital room. She picked it up and dusted it off. "It's a jacket to go with your suit. I figured you might need one, seeing as how the other is…covered in blood…"

Jack took the garment bag and looked inside. Sure enough, there was a black suit jacket, one of many from the Jack Malone winter collection. But this certain jacket was special. This one had not come from his closet. It had come from Samantha's apartment.

"You went all the way to Queens."

"I knew you needed it, and I figured Marie probably wouldn't be able to leave work to go back home for a change of clothes."

"You didn't have to do that," he told her.

Samantha's gaze held steady. "No. I wanted to."

Jack stared down, running his hand over the fabric. Her answer held a myriad of meanings, and ones Jack wasn't ready to sort through just yet. The jacket was one of many items lost during "the break-up." During their time together, he would sporadically leave things behind. A t-shirt here, a pair of cufflinks there…

_They weren't sporadic, Jack._

Jack frowned to himself. There was that conscience again, keeping him in check. No, somewhere Jack understood that his actions had been intentional. The discarded objects carried with them a reason to escape. It was a game Jack played, excuses to allow himself to return. He had to go back to Samantha's apartment. He'd left his Rolex there. He had to ride in her car. How else would he get his briefcase?

If Jack had been an honest man, he probably wouldn't have needed to leave fragments of himself behind. But then again, if Jack had been an honest man, he never would have had an affair with Samantha in the first place.

When Jack ended it, the articles left behind became lost in something of a black hole, but they were the least of their concerns. For a long time, neither one made mention of them. But slowly, the possessions were returned, in the most discreet ways possible. A work shirt would be on a hanger against his door. A neatly folded pair of sweatpants would be found on his desk in the morning. Once, Jack came across a toothbrush on the inside of his trench coat.

The pattern did not end there. In recent months, Samantha's return of the objects had become a ritual. Every month, a new object would make its appearance, like ghosts of his former life. Last month had been a pair of cufflinks. The month before that, an old money clip.

What it all meant, Jack wasn't sure. But she was here, wasn't she? Standing before him, crying tears over him…all because….

Jack shook the thought away. Get it together, Malone. He held up the jacket with a half-smile. "I forgot all about this."

"Me too," Samantha quickly rejoined. "I only remembered when I saw what was left of the first jacket." They were lies, but they were comfortable lies.

The door clicked open, and Samantha jutted away from her close proximity to Jack lest someone should see. It was a good thing she did too, as Martin Fitzgerald walked through the door.

"Hey," Martin said. He looked to Jack with concerned eyes. Young eyes. "How is it?"

Jack addressed the wound. "It's clean. It's bandaged."

Martin grinned a little, visibly relieved to see Jack in such good condition. "It's a start, right?"

"It's a finish, hopefully." Jack looked around the hospital room and sighed. "I hate these places."

Samantha heaved a sigh. "Stop getting in the way of bullets and you won't have to come here so often."

"I'll put it on my 'to do' list."

Samantha picked up her jacket and sent both gentlemen her usually 'grin and bear it' smile. "Alright. I'm off. You'll get my call. See ya…"

Martin watched her leave. "Bye." Samantha waved and left the hospital room, leaving Jack and Martin alone in the hospital room.

Jack knew better. He wasn't about to let that silence linger. "What'd you find?"

"Bryce Layman," Martin answered. "In hospital room 115."

"Guarded?"

"Yeah, by your local Rent-A-Cops. But, he's got an infection from the bullet wound. He's not going anywhere."

"Okay." Jack stepped down from his perch on the hospital bed and grabbed his jacket. "Let's go have a talk with Mr. Layman. See what he'll let us know."

"Yeah, well, the police still haven't found any of Jason's fingerprints in that factory."

"I know, Samantha told me. It doesn't look good."

Martin stared forward with sincere resolve. "Yeah, but that doesn't mean anything. We've seen these cases before. It's always what you least except."

Jack wasn't certain why, but again he thought of Danny. "Tell me about it."

"Well, let's go over what we know," Martin began. Jack held back a smile as Martin went into a full discourse. "Bryce broke into St. Luke's on the same night that Jason disappears. When we go to his factory, there's no sign of either child, fingerprints or otherwise. I'm beginning to wonder if he took Jason there at all."

Jack nodded. "There's over a million places in this city."

"Bryce could have taken Jason to any of them."

Jack took to his feet, feeling ready to face Bryce Layman and whatever information he was holding from them. Martin's youth and vigor in his work had that affect on him. Invigorated, Jack threw on his jacket.

"Samantha brought you that?" Martin asked.

Damned attention to detail. Never fails. Funny how the same reasons you hire someone can come back to bite you in the ass. Jack didn't skip a beat. "Yeah. She stopped by the office for me."

Jack barely even registered the lie; he'd been telling so many today. As they left the hospital room to visit Layman, thoughts of Samantha were still fresh on his mind. Jack had been nonchalant about the garment bag, but what Samantha didn't know was that Jack had not forgotten that he'd left this jacket at her apartment, nor had he forgotten the other objects left behind after their break-up. The way Jack saw it he had three more months to figure out what Samantha meant by the unearthing of the remnants. She still had a necktie, a half of a bottle of aftershave, and his favorite sweatshirt.

The transformation occurred on the way to Bryce Layman's room. Jack became professionalism himself. He and Martin showed their badges to the Rent-a-Cops who stood guard by Layman's door.

"Hi, I'm Special Agent Jack Malone, and this is Special Agent Fitzgerald. We'd like a word with your charge."

Martin smiled to the guards for good measure. "This shouldn't take long."

Jack smirked. Sometimes you had to lie. Sometimes it was the only way to do what was right.


	41. 17 hours missing

Dammit, again it's taken me too long to reward you! The bad news is that I have taken ill with some sort of cold/flu bug. The good news is this has given me time to write. lol Children's Welfare keeps me busy, but I love my job. Every day is a new lesson. I sometimes feel that I am very much like Martin, inept, but eager - hopefully with as much potential as he has! Perhaps that is what has inspired this chapter.;)

Mariel, anmodo, Katerina, Laura B, and rozzy - as always, I hope you are all doing very well, and I thank you for your reviews. :) Amy Lee and Jaywalker - welcome!! I'm glad you've found this story!

(x)

Before entering into hospital room 115, Martin Fitzgerald gave considerable pause. He remembered to check himself. Last year's "incident" had changed him in many ways, for better and for worse. Ever since that day, whenever he was about to interrogate a perpetrator, he asked himself two questions.

Was he mentally ready to confront this suspect? And perhaps more importantly, was he emotionally ready to confront this suspect?

Every day Martin faced them: murderers, kidnappers, rapists... sometimes worse. It was his job as an FBI agent. Martin had worked hard for it to be his job, and it made all the sense in the world that he should be the one to face them. After all, how could you catch the monsters if you didn't confront them?

However, Bryce Layman was different. This monster was Danny's own. This was a new breed, and Martin couldn't predict how he would react once he saw him. Just the idea of this man had sent Danny into a fit of rage. This man had brought torment into Danny's life and into the lives of those closest to him. If only for that, Martin was emotionally charged.

Jack placed his badge back inside his suit jacket. He regarded Martin. "Are you ready to do this?"

Martin wanted to laugh, though not out of jest. After everything that happened that day - Jack's near death at the hands of Bryce Layman, Danny's outburst at the factory, the probability that Jason Coliandri had been kidnapped at Layman's hand - Jack wanted to know if he was ready for this.

Martin wasn't sure. He damn well hoped he was.

But that was not the answer to give Jack Malone. So he chose another one instead. "Yeah," he said. The clarity of his voice surprised him. It was so strong that Martin had nearly convinced himself. "Yeah, let's get in there."

"Okay… I'll go first."

There wasn't a moment of hesitation. Jack Malone threw open the door and stormed into Bryce Layman's hospital room. Entrance was everything. If Jack didn't frighten Bryce from the moment he walked into that room, he never would.

Martin trailed behind, and out of instinct, he took in his surroundings. The hospital room was immaculate, in that smothering kind of way. It reeked of antiseptics and medicinal drugs, most likely used in abundance to ensure Bryce Layman would survive his minor injuries. All the technology in the universe denied to thousands all across the world, and it's ready and available to New York City's most wanted. Martin Fitzgerald walked into the room with a disgusted frown. It made him sick to his stomach.

There was little time to dwell on the fact, as the star of their show, Bryce Layman himself, came into view. Martin was certain that in his world Bryce was alpha and omega. He was master, commander. The Drug Lord. He called the shots, controlling the masses transporting his coke across town. But here at South Bronx General, Bryce was in captivity. He was a grown man, thirty-five or thirty-six by Martin's estimate, a tall brute with a quarterback build. But lying there in a pale blue hospital gown with his wrists tied down by restraints, he looked half the size he had in the factory. And uglier, Martin thought as an addendum. As Bryce Layman was in desperate need of a shower.

Unfortunately, the dehumanizing means did little to lessen the drug dealer's ferocity. Bryce's glare was backed by an anger so potent that it had a paranormal quality, like he'd become possessed by something out of the Poltergeist movies.

Martin wanted to return the glare with a fistfight, but as he had learned, there were other, more powerful ways to intimidate. There was a cold, solid FBI intimidation his team had taught him. Martin had witnessed the phenomena more than he had possessed it. Now, he witnessed it on Jack Malone. Jack had become that presence. His jaw clenched and his brown eyes fell to glaring slits. Martin kept a short length behind his supervisor. This was Jack's show, and they all had their part to play.

"Bryce Layman," Jack addressed him. "This is Special Agent Fitzgerald. My name is Special Agent Malone." Jack pressed his badge in front of Bryce's face. "We've met."

"I'm not talking to either of you shitheads," Bryce informed them. "Not until my lawyer gets here."

Martin stepped forward. "There's only one problem with that, Mr. Layman," Martin told him. "Your lawyer's on a 15-hour lay-over in Detroit."

At the news, Bryce's face fell ever so slightly.

No shit. The bastard was surprised. Martin looked on in silence, while Jack pressed his advantage. Looking down smugly, Jack read out of a folder. "As for you, we have you all over the map, Bryce. We have a drug-bust at your factory with your fingerprints on 550 bags of cocaine. We have proof that you illegally employed Jordan Coliandri, a minor, to deliver controlled substances. We have a witness ready to testify that you are the leader of a national drug ring. You attempted to murder a member of the FBI. You resisted arrest. You have an infected bullet wound, twenty-seven outstanding parking tickets… And now…" Jack's tone had gotten louder with every word spoken, and now it reached its peak. "You are the prime suspect in the kidnapping and possible murder of a three-year-old boy, who just happens to be the brother of Jordan Coliandri." The folder shut with a slap. Jack glared down. "Today's just not your day. Is it, Bryce?"

Bryce's face screwed up in a grimace. "The law says I don't have to talk to you," he repeated, this time more urgently. "Not until my lawyer gets here!"

Jack nodded. "You're right. You don't have to talk to us. You don't have to listen to us. You don't even have to look twice in our direction." Jack neared, his fierce stance breaking the unspoken boundary between him and Layman. "But a lot of things can happen in 15 hours, Bryce. A lot of phone calls can be made."

Martin rejoined him. "A lot of court decisions can be discussed."

It was Bryce's turn to glare, and he did. Hard. "You can't-"

"Oh, we can," Jack Malone cut him off. "Before we caught you, you were in your own little world. You had your own grounds, with your own rules, and your own pastime of bagging fifths of smack any time your little heart desired. But now? Now, you're in our world. And that's where you're going to stay, Bryce. We have enough to prosecute you, convict you, and send you away to jail for the rest of your miserable life."

Bryce writhed against his restraints. "Innocent until proven guilty, dickhead," he seethed. "The law says-"

"I know you've had a lot of lessons in United States Constitution." Jack spoke slowly...frighteningly. "But that's not how the real world works, Bryce." He leaned down, just a little closer to whisper right next to his ear. "We're FBI. We own you."

"Fuck you."

Jack's eyes went wild. Martin felt his breath catch. "Where're you keeping Jason Coliadnri?" Jack demanded.  
The drug dealer's voice reached a high pitch. He fought violently against his restraints. "I told you, fuckers, that I have no idea what you're talking about!"

Jack was right in his face now. "You're lying! You lying piece of shit! We know you have him! Where are you keeping them?! HUH!? WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY?"

For Martin it occurred in a filter, in slow motion, as if what was happening couldn't possibly be taking place. With a blood-red face and a sweating brow, Jack grabbed Bryce by his hospital gown. He began shaking him, harder and harder by his collar.

"WHERE'S JASON!?" Jack screamed so hard his voice cracked. "WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?! WHERE ARE YOU KEEPING HIM, YOU PIECE OF SHIT?!"

Martin reacted within an instant. He shouted for Jack to get off of the suspect, but his orders fell upon deaf ears. When he saw that Jack had no intentions of backing off, he jumped on top of his supervisor, pulling him off Bryce with all his might. Though it was difficult to see underneath his pressed work-shirts, Martin had muscles, along with a physical endurance that had been built over years of police training and gym membership. Even with all that, it took a few moments to get a grip on Jack and then to drag him off of a screaming, howling Bryce Layman.

Bryce writhed and shrieked, trapped in place by his restraints. Using all his strength, Martin forced Jack out of the hospital room and into the hallway.

Once there in the quiet of the hallway, Martin released his supervisor. The two rested against the wall, taking a moment to catch their breath.

Jack caught his first. He took out a white handkerchief and ran it over his face and then pushed his hair back with his hand. He looked at Martin. The switch had taken place without Martin's notice. Aside from his panting breath and still sweating brow, Jack appeared to once again be in control. "We'll stay out here a few minutes, and then you'll go back in there by yourself. After that show, he should be ready to have some sense talked into him. If that doesn't make him talk, we'll move from there."

Martin stood, resting his hands on his knees. The act had taken a lot out of him. A lot more than he had expected. He took deep, cleansing breaths, trying to convince his arms to stop shaking.

Jack rested a hand on Martin's shoulder. "Do you have any questions?"

Martin could have spent all day asking them. Where did you learn how to do that? How can you be in a murderous rage in one moment and calm as a church mouse the next? How does it _happen_?

But the one question that haunted Martin remained. Why had it taken all of his strength to pull Jack's hands off of Bryce. He didn't ask it. Martin didn't need to. He felt the anger, brewing deep beneath the surface. He was sure the entire team felt the same way as Jack did, and Danny the most.

Martin had to put that all aside now. He had a job to do. He rose to his full height and turned to Jack. "How long do I have in there?"

Jack stole a glance at the Rent-A-Cops in the corner. They were chatting amongst themselves, oblivious to what had happened, and unconcerned as to what would happen next. "I don't think we have a time limit."

"You think he'll talk?"

"I think there's only one way to find out. Remember. He doesn't know you yet. Who you are in there is all he knows of you. You can be anyone you want, and that's who he'll believe you are. Especially in the state he's in now."

Martin focused on the door to Bryce's hospital room. Jack's reasoning slowly sunk through his form, until it became Martin's own.

Jack continued. "Once he believes you're on his side, he'll tell you everything you want to know."

Martin mentally and emotionally prepared himself. The stage was set. They all had their parts to play. Every one knew their lines, except for Layman. What he said in there could be their link to Jason and Jordan Coliandri. Jack handed him Bryce's folder, and Martin snatched it into his hand. It was usually Jack who did this, convincing the suspects that he was their ticket to freedom. However, with his fresh bullet-wound, Jack was out of the question. So was Danny. And Samantha and Vivian? There was little chance that Bryce would trust with them, let alone identify with them.

Martin straightened his tie and stalked back into hospital room 115 once more. It was time for Martin to face Danny's monster alone, and this time, he had to make the monster believe that he was his ally.

Was he mentally ready?

Was he emotionally ready?

Martin closed his eyes and tried to be.


	42. Breaking the Rules

Happy New Year, Everyone! I hope everyone had a good time ringing in 2005. :) Perhaps it will be a better year for updating? (I certainly hope so.)

Mariel: Always generous with your encouragement and forgiveness, thank you. :) Your own works are an inspiration to so many!

Katerina: Thank you, I do feel better! :) Maybe it was because of reviews...;) JK JK!

Laura B: More Danny at your request!

Politik: I'm just glad you're enjoying it! Always great to meet a new reader! A fellow fan of Coldplay, I take it?

Anmodo: Just you and me, darlin! We're Danny lovers 'til the end, I fear. ;) It's a good thing you update more frequently than I do! (Thank God Danny fans will get their fix.)

Tiantian Wang: And I say thank you. :) Welcome, as well! Glad you found this!

Hehe, I perfer personal messages every once in awhile....Okay, okay.... Now....on with the story.....

(x)

Samantha Spade's keys hit her desk with a 'clink', instantly alerting Vivian Johnson to her presence in the FBI's Missing Persons' workroom.

Vivian looked up from her papers. "How's Jack?" She asked the question instantly, as if it had been on the tip of her lips all day and only now could be released. To outside parties it may not have been apparent, but Vivian's concern for Jack had preoccupied her since the phone call. Only now did it become evident in her features.

Samantha's coat dropped down off her slim shoulders. "The hospital cleaned up the wound. He's healing just fine." She lent Vivian a reassuring smile. "You know Jack. He already has Bryce Layman in interrogation."

"Really? And how did he manage that?"

"He neglected to attend his emergency room appointment."

Vivian sported the smallest smile. "Why am I not surprised?"

"As luck would have it, Layman was sent to the same hospital as Jack was."

"Mmm, that is lucky, considering all the hospitals he could have been directed to," Vivian said softly. "What's Layman got to say for himself?"

"Nothing that helps us. At least not yet."

Vivian shook her head. "Layman…Dirtbag," she muttered. "The things these low-lives do to kids…"

The two women shared an understanding stare. Normally, it might have held for longer, but Samantha soon fixed her gaze on Danny Taylor. Danny sat alone at his desk with his back turned to them, hunched over a thick pile of papers. He was studying a computer printout, one of those never-ending reams with green and white stripes. The desk was blanketed with them. It was a scene all too familiar to any member of the FBI. Needless to say,Samantha empathized.

Vivian wheeled her revolving chair closer to Sam. She lowered her voice. "Did forensics find any sign of Jason?"

Samantha shook her head.

Vivian's hope appeared to physically deflate from her body. Crestfallen, she let out a sigh. Samantha could feel her body mimicking Vivian's reaction. They'd probably all be looking that way if they kept hearing such answers. However, Samantha forced the thought away. She couldn't allow herself to dwell on that. She focused instead on more pressing matters.

Presently, those matters concerned Danny. "When did he get back?"

"About a half hour ago."

Samantha pressed her lips together thoughtfully.

Vivian folded her hands-free phone away from her face. "When he came in here, it looked like it would have taken less than a gust of wind to knock him over."

"Something got him back in check though," Sam observed. "He's a lot quieter than last he left us."

Vivian nodded again. "He's been over there for the past twenty minutes, pouring over those phone numbers."

"How many do you have?"

"Tens of millions?" Vivian resounded. She grabbed her own rather hefty stack of pages. "We have them from the payphone on Birch Street, St. Luke's Orphanage, and the Juvenile Detention Center. We're still trying to find a connection, assuming there is one."

Samantha's smile edged to the side. "Need a hand?"

Vivian gladly handed over half of her pile. "Please. The more the merrier."

Looking through her own copy of of the three venues, she noticed Northeast Detention Center's familiar letterhead. She made a face at it. "More from this place."

"I take it Northeast Detention failed to thrill you."

"Let's just say if I never hear from that godforsaken detention center again, I can die a happy woman."

Vivian smiled. "If only everyone were so easy to please."

"Have you or Danny found anything noteworthy yet?"

Vivian brought her glasses back up to her eyes. "Danny came across a lot of frequent out of distict numbers from St. Luke's Orphange that he's looking into right now. Other than that, your guess is as good as mine."

They were speaking in normal tones now. Samantha arched her neck, keeping her eyes trained on Danny. When you work with someone over a long enough period of time, you learn their nuances, their ticks, the little things that set them apart and give them character. If Samantha knew Danny's work-style (and she did), then this was the point in the conversation where a smart-ass comment would come cracking like a whip from his section of the workroom. 'What? What's that?' he would sing. 'What's Danny Taylor doing today? It's a shame he's not here for you to ask him.' 'You know most people wait until someone's _out _of the room before they start talking about them.' 'This just in from Einstein: Sound now travels across short distances.'

Samantha waited for it, for that crack of the whip, for that second hand to chime.

Danny sat stone still, silent as the grave. As if he hadn't registered the sound of his spoken name, as if he hadn't the first concern as to what had been said. He stared forward, his body for all purposes a statue.

Samantha looked on sadly in his direction, before reluctantly subjecting herself to her deskwork. She spared Danny once more glance and shifted uncomfortably in her chair. His continued silence was disconcerting as hell.

(x)

The door slammed behind Martin as he entered back into Bryce's hospital room.

Bryce Layman, still a prisoner to his restraints, immediately demanded of the agent before him, "What the fuck was that all about?! Huh?" Fury rested solidly in his chest. His whole body was puffed up as if he were wearing inflatable life vests under his hospital gown. "You think you can just run in here and grab me by the fucking shirt collar?!"

Bryce went on to make another creative string of derogatory comments. Martin ignored them. Instead of listening to Bryce's rant, he checked his own emotions at the door. He reminded himself of Bryce's true state of mind. Despite his very convincing facade, Bryce was acting out of fear now. Jack had derided the drug lord. He'd treated him like a piece of dirt. He'd explained in detail how much shit he'd dug himself into. He'd done everything except cut off Bryce's windpipe. Outside of Bryce's anger, his violence, and his constant swearing, deep inside, the man was absolutely terrified.

The idea of Bryce secretly shaking in his boots gave Martin the confidence he needed to continue. He grabbed a hospital-issued chair and sat down facing Layman's hospital bed.

Bryce continued in his outrage, ending with a shout that reverberated off of the walls. "What the fuck is _wrong _with you people?!"

Martin answered him. "You made him angry."

Bryce scoffed. "No. Really, Sherlock? And all this time I thought he was trying to sing me a lullabye."

"Hey." Martin's bark grabbed Layman's attention. "I'd cut the crap if I were you."

"Fuck you," Bryce said. "Pansy ass."

"You know what. You want to insult me? Fine, go ahead. But you don't have much going for you, Mr. Layman. Special Agent Malone and I? We're your only lifelines. And as you said, it doesn't take a detective to figure out how Agent Malone feels about you."

"Go fuck yourself."

Martin's expression hardened. "You know, I can call him back in here. Let him finish what he started."

Bryce glared. "Just try it."

"I should. I don't think you'd get too much of a fight out with those restraints in place." Martin met Bryce's stare head-on. "You certainly couldn't last time."

Bryce glared down at the thick leather straps holding him in place. His fists shook and rattled against his shackles. Even with his quarterback build, his resistance barely registered a ripple. After he was finished testing his strength, he turned back to Martin. "I'll tell my lawyer about this. I'll get both you fucks behind bars."

Martin couldn't have looked more apathetic if he tried. "C'mon, Bryce. You're smarter than that," he said. He spoke like a teacher disenchanted with his favorite student. "We both know things around here don't work that way."

Bryce didn't skip a beat. "And I suppose you're here to tell me how it works."

"You've already seen how Agent Malone wants it to work. If it were up to him, you wouldn't even be in this hospital right now. You'd be in a federal prison, meeting your new cellmate."

Bryce snorted at the remark. He stared forward at the wall in front of him. "Oh yeah?" he challenged. "Then why aren't I?"

Martin's eyes locked onto Layman. He spoke as if in conspiracy. "Maybe Agent Malone and I don't share the same sentiments."

"Regarding what?"

"The law."

Bryce, who had taken care not to meet eye contact, slowly angled his face towards Martin. He squinted, suspicious. "What's that supposed to mean?"

_There it is, _Martin thought. _The game begins._

"What it means," Martin clarified, "is that maybe Agent Malone and I play by different rules."

For the first time since Martin had met him, Bryce granted him silence. Martin now had his full and upright attention. The next time Bryce spoke it was in a clear, intelligible tone. "Different rules." He used Martin's same language. "You care to explain what you mean by that."

Confidence exuded off Martin, all ten thousand watts of it. "Let me put it this way." Martin held up Bryce's bulging folder of FBI records in his hand. "These records are written in stone. Agent Malone and the FBI already know of your exploits. The courts have full knowledge of your crimes."

"The point," Bryce chided.

Martin's gaze pierced Bryce's. "My point is that there is no way to stop this from going to court.The storm will come. All I'm saying is that I just happen own the best umbrella that money can buy."

Understanding enveloped Bryce Layman, casting a haze over his eyes. He looked away, the wheels his head taking him for a joy ride. He patted his parched lips. Martin could see him working it out. He waited patiently for Bryce to reply.

"So…" Bryce's voice cracked. It looked for a second like he'd run short of breath. He checked Martin's gaze to make sure he understood. "So, you'll help me out for a price."

"You could say that."

"What do you want? You want drugs? Money?"

Martin shook his head. "No. I only want one thing. You give me that, and I make this trial work for you. From the inside out."

"Make this trial work?" Bryce couldn't help but taunt him. "What the hell do you mean by that?"

Martin upped his game another level. "I mean, amnesty. I mean, FBI protection. I mean, court decisions that could lean in your direction with a little carefully placed persuasion. In short, it means your freedom, Bryce."

Conflicting thoughts tracked across Bryce's face, transparent to the onlooker. Martin watched his expressions. He read them, as clearly as an open book. He'd seen this ambivalence before, on many suspects' faces. Initially, it was excitement, arousal at the thought of an escape from imprisonment. However, that excitement was quickly disippated by the anxiety of placing their life in someone else's hands. Bryce was a drug dealer. Power and control were crucial elements in every aspect of his life. Bryce stared forward, sweat beading on his forehead, his bugling frame focused on nothing aside from his own thought processes.

Martin spoke again. His voice took on a cavalier tone. "I mean, if you've got a better deal, just let me know. But I don't think you have one. Aside from pleading your case in front of a judge, a jury, your other associates. Who, by the way, will probably rat you out before the day is through-"

"What do you want?" Bryce demanded.

And there it was. Just like that, Martin had been given a chance. A chance at finding one of the children alive. His heartbeat hastened. Martin took a breath and plunged. "I'll give you the federal court on a silver platter…if you tell me where I can find Jason Coliandri."

The drug lord momentarily froze. A long sigh seeped out from between Bryce's chapped lips. He still didn't look at Martin.

Martin immediately moved to reassure him. "You don't need to tell me about your involvement. You don't need to explain to me how you've gained this piece of information. All you need to tell me is his exact location, and I'll get whatever you need."

Normally, Martin Fitzgerald would never have taken such drastic measures. From the moment of their induction, the department's FBI agents were given specially-outlined goals to meet and certain criteria to fill, which did not include bypassing testimony of the criminals' involvement in their victims' whereabouts. Neglecting to fulfill said criteria had serious repercussions, and ones that Martin understood. Had Van Doren been in the room, she would have fired his ass on the spot. His badge would be a new fixture in the garbage can by Bryce's hospital bed. His employment with the FBI, a distant memory.

But this wasn't about Van Doren. This wasn't about his employment with the FBI, and it wasn't about his department's agenda. This was about Danny, and seeing his children safe in his arms.

Martin's breath swelled up in his chest, burning against his lungs as he held it, waiting for Bryce Layman to give an answer.

Bryce kept his face trained away from Martin's. "You want to know where Jason Coliandri is?"

"That's exactly what I need."

"You'll get me out here, if I send you there."

"That's all I need you to do."

Bryce leaned back in his hospital bed against his restraints. He looked down at the thick leather that pinned down his wrists. He studied them for quite awhile. Then he looked up. His decision had been made.

"Okay. I'll tell you."


	43. Back to the Scene

Another post from work... Thanks for all the reviews!! They keep me motivated! ;D

(x)

Danny sat at his desk, staring intently at the lines upon lines of phone numbers on the pages before him. Birch Street, Northeast Detention Center, St. Luke's Orphanage… Normally, he might have found himself overwhelmed by such an onslaught of disorganized numbers. However, tonight Danny forced himself to be of one mind. He had come close, so close to the edge of losing it that only Rachel had been able to bring him back. He didn't have much energy left. The little he had, he fed into leafing through pages, recording numbers that didn't belong, taking note of any abnormality in the read-out, and slowly narrowing down the numbers that Jordan Coliandri could have contacted. Danny had needed a productive activity to preoccupy his thoughts. Right now, this was as good as any other.

However, as necessary as the distraction was, Danny found it difficult to truly focus. The entire day had been the equivalent of an emotional roller coaster for Danny Taylor. By morning, he had lost the two people whom he loved the most above all others and whom he had personally promised to protect. By afternoon, both were still missing, and though no one was saying it, if something wasn't found soon, it would be assumed that the children were not coming home.

If Danny dwelled upon that thought too long, it would destroy him, in ways that would affect him for the rest of his life. Danny flipped another page. He tried to concentrate, but the memories that flooded back upon him were too strong. The numbers began to blur before his eyes. He ran a finger down one line, then two, then three… However, his mind had different plans. His train of thought drifted to Jordan and Jason. Guilt pulled him backward from the phone numbers and produced an image, a clear, distinct memory that gripped him and mercilessly drug him under…

_... "I don't want to go."…_

_A robin chirped merrily as sunlight shone down, casting rays of light between the green leaves of the oak trees in front of the Church._

_Danny held his hand against __Jordan__'s shoulder as they stood before the gray stone exterior of St. Luke's Orphanage. She stood by his car, the heels of her ancient purple and yellow Sketchers rooted in place. Danny removed his sunglasses and placed them in his shirt pocket. "I know you don't, kid," he said. "But you want to be with your brother, right?"_

_Jason, two years old at the time, rested against his sister's shoulder, asleep in her arms. __Jordan__ looked down upon him with the undiluted adoration of a parent. "More than anything."_

_Danny opened out his palms. "If you want to stay with Jason, then you have to go to this orphanage. That's the deal we made, remember? I said I'd find a place for the both of you, but it's your job to-"_

_"Meet you halfway," __Jordan__ said in time with Danny. She'd heard the phrase a lot recently, so often in fact that she could recite it with Danny now. "I know. I remember."_

_Danny shrugged. "So…what's the problem?"_

_"I just…" __Jordan__ readjusted Jason on her shoulder. The child bounced, but he didn't wake up. "I just don't want to go in there."_

_Danny turned to face the building. He studied it, and then turned back to __Jordan__. "Why not?" He eyed her carefully. "What? Are you scared?"_

_"No." The answer kicked back like a slingshot. But then, after a few seconds, she amended her answer. "Well…yeah. Maybe a little…"_

_Danny remembered thinking. –Okay. Now we're getting somewhere…- He stepped back and leaned against the Stratus. Jordan joined him, and Danny opened conversation. "All right. Truth time. What're you afraid of?"_

_"I dunno." There was attitude in her voice. It was obvious that she was annoyed to even be discussing this with him. However, eventually, the attitude waned, and __Jordan__ looked down at her feet. "That it'll be horrible."_

_Danny blinked, barely believing his ears. "'Horrible?' I had you meet with Sr. Rachel a week ago. She took you guys out to lunch. Did she seem 'horrible' to you?"_

_"No," __Jordan__ answered. "She seemed okay, but I'm just… I'm just so scared, Danny." Her voice quivered as her baby blues threatened tears. "What if they try to split us up? What if we're not what they want? They might send Jason away. Or, they'll send me away, and I'll never see him again."_

_Again Danny took her shoulder in his hand. His voice held solidarity of purpose. "I won't let them."_

_Jordan__ violently shook her head. "You can't promise that-"_

_"I can," Danny swore. "And I will."_

_Jordan__ quieted at that point. Her wide eyes saw only his._

_Danny leaned down closer to speak to her. "This place will be good for both of you, and especially for Jason. You'll have classes, warm food, a place to sleep, and other kids to play with."_

_Jordan__ looked away. She'd heard promises before. So many had been broken that it was difficult to believe them now._

_"Hey." The word gained __Jordan__'s eye contact. "This is a safe place. I know it looks scary on the outside, but that's not what it's like inside. Would I send you here if I thought they would harm you in any way? Would I?"_

_Jordan looked up, taking in his words._

_"C'mon," Danny nearly begged. "I'll look out for you."_

_Something gleamed in __Jordan__'s eyes just then. The prospect of a caretaker, of someone watching over her, sparked trust for __Jordan__ in her protector. However, one thing had to be made certain. "You promise?"_

_"Cross my heart, chica." Danny made the motion. "And hope to die."_

_From that point on, he had her faith. __Jordan__ looked up at the building one last time. She pushed back from against the car and took a step forward. "Is the food any good?"_

_They made their way across the yard, and Danny led her up the steps. "You got me. But I'll take you downstairs. We'll ask the people tied up to sewing machines in the basement with the rats and boogiemen and see what they think-"_

_Jordan__ punched Danny in the shoulder. He took the hit like a man, but laughed as the small punch that barely registered on his bicep. Grinning, he reached over to ruffle her hair. "You're on your way, kid. Only good things from here…"… _

The phone numbers of St. Luke's Orphanage reeled back into focus. Vivian shuffled her papers behind him and a phone rang loudly in the corner of the office, but Danny's mind held on stubbornly to that day on the front lawn of the orphanage.

The implications of that single, ordinary day reached out and gripped him. Jordan hadn't wanted to go to the orphanage. She'd been afraid of what would happen to her and her brother. Danny had been the one who had convinced her to go. He promised that he would take care of her. Jordan had believed him, and then at the most vital moment, Danny had let them both down.

"Danny?"

A soft, melodious voice shirked Danny from his thoughts. He surfaced with an audible shiver to find Samantha looking down upon him with concerned eyes.

Danny couldn't focus on Samantha though. The memory was heart-breaking, in every sense of the word. But his thoughts were taking him somewhere, and he was willing to go along for the ride. That interaction at St. Luke's. What had been so crucial about it? Why had he thought of it just now? Why was it so important?

"Danny…" she repeated.

The agent stared forward, squinting, considering the case with a perspective that was his and his alone. He took a breath and said, "What if Jordan never wanted to be at that orphanage? What if all this time all she's been looking for is a way out?"

(x)

The door to hospital room 115 burst open, and Martin sprinted outward towards his supervisor. "I've got him. Bryce gave me Jason's location. We're going back to the South Bronx."

Had there been a meter to gauge Jack Malone's shock factor, the reading would have soared off the charts. Just like that, Bryce had trusted Martin. If there had been some kind of interrogation time record to break, Jack was certain that Martin would have broken it. He must have been good. He must have been convincing. However, despite the good news, that achingly, familiar pessimism mixed into Jack's thought process, poisoning his hope. Or maybe…

Jack brought that line of contemplation screeching to a halt. Right now, doubt was the last thing they needed. Good fortune was hard to come by, he reminded himself. They needed to take advantage of that fortune for all it was worth.

Jack grabbed his trench coat and joined Martin in his dash out of the hospital. "Good work."

Martin made no response. His eyes were fixed straight ahead. His mind focused fully on the picture of the three-year-old child as shown to him that morning in the office. The possibility consumed him. By nightfall, Jason could be protected from danger, secure in their police car, and only minutes away from rushing safely into Danny's arms…


	44. Realizations

anmodo, you should open upa shop with neon lights and a crystal ball... cuz you're a mind reader...;)

(x)

Upon hearing the comment, Samantha remained quiet for a moment. She crossed her lithe arms and rested against Danny's desk. Though she didn't mean to stare, it was hard to look away from Danny. The hours had worn away on him with remarkable persistence. She'd watched him all day long. If she'd had a time-release camera, she could have proven it to an audience. She could only imagine the bleak outlooks that were causing his body to become more and more haggard with each passing hour.

Truth be told, Samantha didn't understand much of what he was going through, not where it mattered. But one thing she understood all too well was the workings of the mind. It didn't matter who you were. When loved ones went missing, even the most uncreative mind could conger up a million different disasters for their loved ones to face – or worse yet a million different hopes. Danny especially had an abundance of experiences to draw upon to keep his imagination occupied.

Samantha knew better than to encouragethose bleak outlooks. However, in a realm apparent from their current situation, Danny remained one of the most driven, intelligent agents she had ever seen. She could see that he was working up to something, and she wanted to know what he had to say. "Looking for a way out," she repeated. "We already know that she looked for and found a way out of the detention center."

"That's not what I meant." He looked to Samantha, leaning forward in his desk chair as he had so many times before. "I was there the day that Jordan and Jason were admitted into St. Luke's. She didn't want to go there that day. She said specifically that she was afraid of living there, and that she thought something bad would happen to Jason if she stayed."

After listening to his thoughts, Samantha now regretted engaging him. "Danny-"

"Just hear me out," he urged.

Samantha closed her lips and temporarily allowed him to continue.

Danny's speech became more fervent, reminiscent of the Danny Taylor she would have known two days prior. "Think about everything we know about Jordan. The drug running. Skipping classes. Her sudden disappearances. Jordan was running from that orphanage. She had been running from it since the moment she got there."

Samantha felt the corners of her lips pull downward. Her team had been discussing that possibility since word of Jason and Jordan's disappearance had come into their office. It wasn't that she had thought Danny incapable of reaching such a conclusion. In fact, it was just the opposite. She knew he would discover this on his own. But to have him sitting right in front of her, putting two and two together, seeing only now what Jordan's wild behavior said of her living situation at St. Luke's…

She watched the realization burden him, physically weigh upon his shoulders.

The moment was marked. He stared forward with eyes so empty that they seemed to birth something dark, a tunnel to the pain that was now becoming a reality.

His voice barely held itself together. "I told them that they needed to be there."

Samantha's breath caught in her throat. She had watched him hold back all day long, but now, that phase had ended. She hadn't the first idea what to say. So she said the only thing she could. "Danny, it's not your fault-"

"You know, everyone's been trying to tell me that all day. That's it's not my fault. But you know what? If it's not my fault, then who's is it?"

Danny then said something Samantha never forgot. She believed that Danny, already under severe mental strain and increasingly severe distress, spoke the truth of his mind in baldly simple terms people rarely dare to use, because they reveal too much about the speaker's real heart. "Jordan told me that first day that she didn't belong at St. Luke's. She trusted me, and I put here there, because –I- wanted her there, not because that was where she needed to be. I couldn't let go. That's why I saw nothing. Not the drug running, not the escapes, not the desperate ways Jordan tried to get my attention. That's the worst part. I could have seen it. But I didn't want to."

Samantha could feel the onset of tears, though she cried none. There was a certain air Danny upheld at the workplace, a sacred air of professionalism, confidence, and absolute objectivity. That air had shattered, and Samantha couldn't even imagine the pain that had caused him to break it.

She was so drawn into Danny, so captivated by his sorrow that she physically jumped when she saw Vivian standing behind him. She wondered first how long Vivian had been standing there, and secondly, how much of their conversation she had heard. The questions, however, were irrelevant. Danny's words had only confirmed their suspicions. When it came down to it, he had only told them what they'd already known to be true.

Vivian cleared her throat. Danny, who had his back turned to her, rotated his chair to face her. Before Danny might have been concerned about eavesdropping, but not today. They were past that.

Vivian stood, holding a paper in both of her hands. Her usual poise was replaced by unease. "Danny, I know you told me that you wanted to be the first to know. About everything."

Danny released a heavy sigh. Throughout her working relationship with him, Samantha had often become frustrated with his secrecy. She had compared Danny's eyes to those of the windows of a limousine. He could see out, but you couldn't see in. Now, it had become painfully obvious that his eyes no longer held that film. They were open for all the world to see. And they were terrified.

Danny's voice cracked when he said, "Just tell me, Viv."

She obliged. "We just got the DNA report back from forensics. The blood on the telephone booth belongs to Jordan." It was like an invisible force had given Danny a light pushbackwards. Reluctantly, Vivian continued. "We're working as hard as we can, Danny. You have to believe that."

At the news, Danny expelled a deep breath and leaned forward in his cushioned chair. His rested his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands.

Instinctively, Vivian pulled back, allowing Danny to have his space. However, Samantha was built differently. She went down on one knee, to reach his eye level. She knew there was nothing she could say, so she linked her arms around his shoulders over his desk chair.

Danny remained still, as if unable to respond. After a moment, he held his hand against her back and said, "I thought she was going to tell me that they…" He didn't finish the statement, couldn't, Samantha imagined.

She spoke in soft tones. "The blood could mean anything. There wasn't a lot of it. We'd barely found it, except-"

Samantha cut short as Danny suddenlyjerked away. He looked upon her with wide, disbelieving eyes.

Samantha blinked, startled. "Danny, what's wrong?"

His voice was barely a whisper. "It was you."


	45. Mystery Woman

Whoooo, I'm surfacing. And I surface with another chapter! I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long. Lord knows, you don't deserve it.

Rozzy, Mariel, anmodo, and asd - Thank you again for your reviews!

Celine, Prolificmuse, and yonaka - Thank you, too! and Welcome!

(x)

There are moments in a person's life that remain with them forever. Most of the time people don't get to choose. There just comes a point when certain people and the actions those people take will never be forgotten. Danny had felt it when Jack first handed him his badge and said "welcome to the FBI", when he saw Jordan for the second time bolting from her house, when Rachel had given him a key to the orphanage … Like an invisible bond, you are tied to that person and the choice they made. When the lights are down and your lover's asleep, you'll be left staring up at the ceiling with the memory.

When Samantha went to comfort him, when she leaned in close… Somewhere Danny was acutely aware that – this was it. This was one of those moments.

Danny didn't have a mirror in front of him, so he couldn't watch the color drain from his face. He could only feel his mouth go dry, and his heartbeat hasten. He shirked from her grasp, and Samantha let go of him as he stood up from his chair.

He repeated himself. "It was you."

Samantha stepped backwards, a bewildered look set deep in her eyes. "Danny, what are you talking about?"

"That night. When I blacked out outside Senunas'." He stared straight at her. "It was you who got me home that night."

Samantha's mouth hung open. Danny could understand the shock. He could barely handle it himself. "How…" Samantha could see in his face that Danny was convinced, and herdemeanor changed."How did you know?"

In biology class a teacher had once told him that scent was the strongest sense connected to memory. Only now did he believe it. "Your perfume. You wore it that night, and you're wearing it now."

Samantha's cheeks reddened so deeply that they were almost purple.

Staring at her, Danny shook his head. "What happened, Sam?"

Samantha tried her best to play it off. "Well, it's not like I spent the night, Danny-"

"Don't," he chided, meaning 'don't turn this around. This is about you now.' "You know what I mean. What happened? Why did you follow me?" A thought struck Danny like a bolt of lightening. "Did Jack put you up to this?"

Samantha's entire form constricted. "No one put me up to this," she shot back.

"Then why did you go after me?"

"Maybe I was worried."

"Worried about what?"

"You don't get it, Danny. You weren't standing here at this desk," Samantha tried to make him understand. "You didn't see the way you looked that night."

It was the way Samantha spoke the words, like it hurt her even to say them. Though Danny didn't want to admit it, the words hurt him, too. The anger he felt that night had been so apparent that it had driven his co-worker to trail after him.

Danny wasn't even sure he wanted to know the answer, but for a reason he couldn't coin, he asked anyway. "And what did I look like?"

Samantha didn't answer right away. She needed a moment to gather her courage. "I watched you. You stormed out of that conference room with this look in your eyes. You looked…" She faltered a moment, unsure if she should even say it. "Danny, I knew something was wrong. And when something goes wrong, you don't stand still."

Danny could feel something hard tighten in his chest. "So you followed me?"

"No." But she soon corrected herself. "Not at first. But the more I sat there, the more I worried about where you were going and what you might do."

Their interaction seemed less like a dream now, and more like reality. He imagined Samantha, sitting here, deciding whether or not to go, and then grabbing the keys to her car. The twisting path to the bar from the office wound its way into Danny's mind. It was not a direct route from the office. "How did you find me?"

"I'm an FBI agent, Danny," Samantha reminded him. "And besides, it wasn't the first time I'd see you there. On Friday nights, I've passed by to see you inside before." Samantha took a deep breath. "At around 11 'o clock, I pulled up to the bar. I wasn't sure what I was going to do. I didn't want to interrupt you inside, so I decided to just wait until you came out. Except you didn't. You just kept drinking…"

As Samantha relayed the events of that early morning, Danny clenched shut his eyes. Despite the alcohol-induced blackout that had kept his memory out of commission, as Samantha spoke, he begrudgingly began to remember…

"I didn't mean to find you like I did. But when you came out of the bar, you could barely hold yourself up. I called your name, but you didn't hear me…"

_"Danny…" Samantha's heels clicked hard and fast against the pavement. "Danny!" A bottle clanked noisily against the ground and rolled off to the side. At the same time, Danny's legs collapsed beneath him, and she reached him just before he would have fallen face-first onto the sidewalk._

_Samantha propped Danny up as best she could. She immediately held her fingers against his wrist. Thankfully, his pulse was regular. However, while that was good news, there was still the matter of him lying unconscious in the middle of New York City. Samantha was strong, stronger than she looked in fact, but there was no way in the world that she could drag Danny Taylor all the way to her Sedan without injuring him in the process._

_She kneeled down, still supporting him with one arm. "Danny," she called to him. She shook him, but Danny was out cold. "Danny, c'mon. I can't do this alone. I need you to help me."_

_A few yards away, the door to the bar creaked open, and a disbelieving voice groaned, "Oh, geez…"_

_A young man in his early twenties took to his feet and was by Danny's side in an instant. "Aw, man…" he addressed him. " Dan, what are you doing?"_

_Samantha leaned back in surprise. "You know Danny?"_

_"Of course, I do." Then it was his turn to be surprised. "How do –you- know him?"_

_Samantha showed him her badge. "From work." She gazed down at Danny, who hadn't moved since she'd seen him go down moments before. "You gave him all this alcohol?"_

_"He was paying."_

_"Do you normally let you clientele drink themselves under a table?"_

_He began to take offense. "Hey, lady. It's not like I poured it down his throat."_

_Though Samantha didn't like hearing it, the bartender had a point. She looped her arm around him. "Here, give me a hand," she instructed him. "Help me get him in my car…"_

_The young man gladly gave assistance. With little difficulty, they were able to lift Danny Taylor up to his feet and over to where Samantha had parked. Getting him into the passenger's side was a challenge, but they took it head-on, until he was secured in a sitting position inside the Sedan. The seatbelt clicked against his torso and acted as a harness, keeping Danny locked in place._

_Samantha let out a final breath of relief before carefully shutting the door. She looked over at the young bartender. "Thank you," she said, catching her breath._

_"No problem." He looked left and right, before saying. "He's lucky you found him before the police did. He could have woken up with a cellmate."_

_"Well, when you're with the FBI, you tend not to worry about those things."_

_"Oh." He grinned. "Right." Before long, the young man had told her that his name was Tony and that though Danny was a regular, he was also a friend._

_Samantha immediately asked, "Do you know where he lives?"_

_"Yeah. He lives downtown, in one of those nice numbers. Palisade Heights. It's not that fancy, but it's decent. It's on K Street."_

_Samantha sent him a suspicious stare._

_Tony blushed. "I got kind of messy one night. He let me crash at his place."_

_She nodded, now understanding. That said, she headed to her car. "Thanks, Tony."_

_"Hey, don't sweat it," he said in his thick Boston accent. "Take good care of him. I want him in here next Friday… You know. Without the quart of Jack Daniels in his system…"_

The entire time Samantha told the story, Danny could see that she was keeping her voice at a civil, even pace. She tried her best to stay objective, to tell only the facts. She continued to explain, "When I got to your apartment, the guard downstairs let me in. I got the key from your jacket pocket, and… I got you into bed."

Danny, on the other hand, was mortified. Her account further proved that his fight against alcoholism was not over. Even worse, it was winning. Danny turned his eyes away as he imagined what it must have been like for Samantha. He had left her with little choice. She had been forced to help him.

"Danny."

At the sound of his name, he felt a hand brush against his cheek. Samantha gazed upon him. "You don't have to feel bad. I'm the one who followed you."

"Sam-"

"I never meant for you to find out..."

Without another word, Danny's embarrassment began to melt away. Opening his arms, he drew her near and held on tightly. Samantha returned the embrace, as if she had been aching to give him this support for as long as she'd known him, and only now was able to provide it.

Danny found himself overcome by the kindness Samantha had shown him. She'd put herself in harms way. She'd spent an entire night making sure he was safe inside his apartment. The words Danny spoke held sincerity, "You're always there for me, Sam. All those years at the office. You've never turned me away…"

"You've been there for me too, Danny," she quietly reminded him. "You always forget that part."

He still held firm in his convictions. "Yeah, but you shouldn't have had to be there for that."

"I asked to be there." Samantha pulled back just enough to look up at him. "After all this over, no matter what happens…I'll be there again."

Danny stood shocked silent for a few seconds. Samantha once again linked her arms around him, and Danny returned to her embrace. In that moment, thoughts of Rachel reached him. That was two women in one day, who had sworn to care for him. He should have felt honored. He should have felt comforted.

Unfortunately, those emotions paled in comparison. He held onto Samantha, like driftwood in a tempest.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

He whispered back, "I don't know. This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do…"

And Danny didn't know how much longer he could do it.


	46. Something Else

The story continues! Keep letting me know what you think! ;D

asd, Loozy, politik, anmodo, Mariel, and Laura -- Thank you! You rock. ;)

(x)

Martin Fitzgerald got out of the car and ran straight ahead to survey the area. The setting sun glared down, and he brought up a hand to shield his eyes. The turbulent 'splosh-splish' of the Hudson Bay lapped against where the asphalt came to a dramatic end. A dirt-encrusted cement building, about the height and width of a pool house, stared back at him. It was right on the water, set yards apart from its neighboring buildings that were close if not exact replicas. It was just as Layman had said it would be, a cement building with a door broken off its hinges on the edge of the Hudson. Layman had described it down to the yellowed patches of grass and broken barbed wire fences that surrounded it.

There was no reason to hesitate. Martin charged forward. His Magnum made a slick 'shick' sound as he yanked it from his holster. "C'mon. He could be in there."

Jack held back Martin's arm. Martin shot a glance up at Jack, butJack trained his eyes away. He was looking towards flashing blue lights. Two Grand Marquis turned off of the main road and came to a screeching halt, causing dust to billow up into the air upon their advent.

Martin looked on in understanding. FBI backup. Jack was right. As much as Martin hated to admit it, they couldn't do this alone. He counted seven other agents getting out of their cars. The agents met them, arms ready, in the middle of the gravel lot. Martin nodded to two agents that he knew, and then let Jack do most of the talking. Jack Malone gathered them together, lent them a short debriefing, and prepared the task force to enter into the building.

"Remember, we received this information from a known drug lord," Jack reminded them. "We're looking for a three-year-old boy, but we might find something else."

One man in dark sunglasses asked him. "Do you think we may have a hostage situation?"

"It's possible. Layman knew plenty of shady characters up for the job." As Jack answered the question, he saw the SWAT team pulling up in their cruisers. Martin focused on Jack, even though he didn't return the stare. Jack was pulling out all the stops on this one. Though Martin agreed with his tactics, he knew that in another, less self-interested case, this much attention would not have been given. He began to understand now how one personal case affected not just one member, but the entire team as a whole.

Throughout the day Martin had learned a lot about personal involvement, but he had a feeling that the lesson wasn't over yet. His body had begun to react involuntarily. His adrenaline rushed. His pulse raced. "Jason could be in there, Jack," he repeated.

"I know," he told Martin. "And we'll be ready." After that, Jack was done with small talk. He used his hands as he talked, directing the agents surrounding him, and split up the agents into groups of two. "Get to your positions and turn on your intercoms. I want communication between teams." Members of the SWAT team, armored and uniformed, marched in unison to the back of the building.

Jack grabbed his weapon. He addressed Martin, "Let's move."

The two FBI agents took off towards the nearest entrance, ahead of the rest. Martin felt the wind whip past him and blow back his suit jacket as they reached the entrance. The door was already halfway open, off its hinges. Martin called inside. "FBI!" he shouted at the top of his lungs.

There was no answer. He looked back at Jack. His supervisor nodded as if to say 'you know what to do.'

Martin certainly did. Martin kicked back the door and with his Magnum drawn, jutted straightinside the building.

An ungodly cloud of stink hit him like a bulldozer, and nearly took his breath away. Eyes bulging, Martin violently gasped for air. The putrid smell poisoned and festered in his lungs, and Martin quickly held his breath. The stench was overwhelming. He had been followed inside by at least five others, and every agent had the same reaction. Martin grabbed his handkerchief and held it to his mouth to create a makeshift face guard against the horrid smell. He willed himself not to vomit, pleaded with his body, and thankfully, his body cooperated.

Other agents were not so lucky. Martin heard a retching sound behind him and then the distinct splatter of puke against the cement floor. Once Martin caught his breath, he was able to identify the stench. He had smelled it before, several times upon crime scenes.

It was the scent of a dead, rotting corpse.

A single thoughtprotruded forward.

_Jason._

Martin reached for his flashlight, hoping to God that his suspicions would not be confirmed. However, another agent who must have been close to the back walls, flicked on a lightswitch.

Overhead, cylindrical fluorescent lights switched on, except there was something different about them. They had been replaced with black lights. However, that was not the first thing that Martin noticed.

The first thing that Martin noticed was the bright neon graffiti that blazed on the back wall before them. It was like being inside a fucked-up funhouse from a '70s horror film. Several messages glared forward in bright yellow, green, and orange.

_The Only Good Cop is a Dead Cop._

_Pigs Belong on the Meat Rack._

And the ever popular – _GO FUCK YOURSELF._

Lying on the ground in a sitting position was a man suited up in his police uniform. He hands were tied behind his back, and a gag tied taunt against his mouth. His terrified, empty eyes stared straight ahead, and a bullet hole stared back at them from the middle of his forehead.

Martin's eyes watered up, from both the smell and the scene left to them by Bryce Layman.

Another agent forced out words. "You've got to be shitting me," he said.

Jack, also holding a cloth across his mouth and nose, let out an enraged growl before alleging, "I'm going to kill that fucking punk."

Coughing and wheezing, the agents put on protective masks and collectively searched the inside of the small abandoned building. With floor lamps set up with the intensity of streetlights, it wasn't difficult to see that Jason Coliandri was nowhere in sight. The agents searched anyway. Given the size of the room along with only two other compartments, their conclusion came swiftly. It could be confirmed that Jason Coliandri was not on the premises.

Jack Malone stood outside with Martin Fitzgerald, speaking with one of the lead members of the SWAT team. He ordered that a forensic team be brought in to check for any sign of the child. Once the order was taken, the leader of the FBI's second task force team informed Jack that Bryce Layman was secured at NYPD. They were just waiting for his lawyer.

The police officer found dead at the scene was named Lakin Banks. He had gone missing three weeks ago, butauthorities had assumedthat he skipped town for warmer climates. Unfortunately, all this time he'd been sitting here, staring forward with those lifeless eyes, waiting for the FBI to stumble upon the remains of his body. Later it would read in the newspaper that he was survived by a wife and two children, and that he died "in the line of duty". _In the line of duty._ It sounded so honorable, so noble, when really all Lakin Banks had done was stumble across the wrong drug deal on the wrong day, and had paid for the mistake with his life.

Martin and Jack stood next to each other, taking in the information as it came to them, and relaying answers back as best they could.

Just when it looked like the information had taken relief, a lone agent ran up to Jack, no doubt sent with a message from his supervisors. He addressed Jack and said, "We looked throughout the building, and we're running through once more. But I was with them when they went through the room. There's no one in there, Agent Malone. No one…except for the cop."

That was what pulled down the corners of Jack's lips, and what squinted his dark eyes. He nodded, naturally, to show that he was a man in control, but he wasn't, not any more.

Martin stepped away, sparing not a word to either of them. Hewalked around the side of the abandoned building to face the water. He wasn't moving very well. Shock had made him gawky.

Martin stared out at the fresh, cool water, the stench from the rotting police officer still wafting into the air. He could feel every part of his body, his teeth, his fists, his muscles, pulling taut with the rage.

Jack could only watch the back of Martin. He couldn't see his eyes. But if Jack had been facing him, he would have seen a face that reflected wrath. Though it was physically impossible for Martin Fitzgerald's eyes to spout fire, they held just as much intensity.


	47. Civil Liberties

Hey, everyone! Thanks for all the reviews, and for the constructive criticism! As a struggling writer, it all truly helps me out more than you know. If I'm taking longer, it's because again – I want to do this story justice. It's so tempting to write and post immediately without proofreading! Hehe, and I want to address all concerns!

Mariel3: Hudson Bay, Hudson River… I'm sorry I put them in Canada. ;) Please forgive the mistake.

Ariana: Thanks for the review! I know, I don't know what to do about the run-on words. :( It happens when I transpose from Microsoft Word into and I have a hard time catching them all. So, if it's distracting, I apologize.

Yonaka: Hey! Thanks for posting a review, girl. As for the locks, all locks can be opened from the outside. How else would Danny get back in?

(x)

Once Danny and Samantha ended their embrace, it did not take long for that same horrible silence to make its return. Weariness had left Danny with little else to say, but their collective quiet was more than that. He was still deeply ashamed of the way Samantha had found him that night at the bar. Her reassuring words served to calm him, but in his heart of hearts, he knew he still had yet to make up for his actions. And in that department, he didn't even know where to begin.

So where do you go when there's nothing left to say and no one left to say it to? You go back to work, which is exactly what he did. Danny worked competently, but with no zest, as if he were working a cold crime scene. For all purposes, his movements could have been compared to those of a robot's - cold, impassive, efficient.

To their merit, neither Samantha nor Vivian made any further comment to him. They worked just as quietly, sharing an observation here and there, but not much else. Unfortunately, the lack of communication he inspired left him with only his thoughts, which at the present time were absolutely miserable.

The computer print-outs folded over with a familiar crinkling sound, and Danny looked up through the tall office windows. Pinks and oranges of dusk melted down, following the descent of the sun. He looked at the sky with reservation. It would be dark soon. Danny wondered if Jordan and Jason were outside. He wondered if they had coats on. He wondered if they were cold…

Samantha's familiar ring-tone broke his devastating thought process, and for the slightly moment, Danny was grateful.

She answered it in the middle of the first ring. "Spade." There was a long moment, before Samantha breathed out. "Oh my God…"

Danny could feel the old dread stealing its fat fingers around his heart and starting to squeeze. He swerved his chair around to evaluate her reaction, but Samantha angled her face away from him, using her long blonde hair as a shield. She spoke in soft tones. "Okay… Yeah. Yeah, I'm on it, Jack."

Samantha hung up and stared forward for a good long minute, presenting only her back to Danny.

It was more than he could take. "What is it, Sam?" His voice sounded tired and dispirited.

Reluctantly, she turned to face him, and with controlled features said, "Layman's asking for a lawyer. He gave us nothing. Nothing but a wild goose chase…"

Her voice and face gave away nothing. For the first time that day, Danny distinctly thought: She's lying. He was about to say so. He began to glare at her. He was about to pump her for information and demand what the hell she thought she was holding back from him.

At the same time, the equivalent of a fire alarm reverberated in his federally trained mind. It flashed an invisible warning, and one that Danny read loud and clear. He re-evaluated his reaction.Samantha was his co-worker, his team member, his friend. Not some subject in an interrogation room.

His face went from beet red to white in less than two seconds. Danny ran a hand through his disheveled hair, barely believing what he'd almost done. He got up, still wearing the same suit with a streak of dirt down the front from the factory, still wearing his shoes caked with gravel on the bottoms.

Looking down at himself, he addressed both Samantha and Vivian. "I'm not helping here," he realized aloud. "Am I?"

Their concerned eyes stared back, along with their silence.

That served as confirmation enough for Danny. He lent them an almost imperceptible nod and managed to turn away. Feeling woozy, he hurriedlywent for the men's room and made it there in time for the colors to swirl. It had taken all day, but finally, the nausea took its toll. He let out a bout of hurried, shallow breaths. He used the sink to support himself. He coughed, but he didn't vomit, much to his own surprise.

Danny stared down into the clean white porcelain of the sink. He let out a deep breath, still shaking. He turned on the faucet and washed handfuls of ice cold water over his face. Using a towel to wipe the water away, Danny looked at himself in the mirror. His hair stood on end from constantly running his hands through it. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, as if he'd spent all day fighting a brushfire.

_C'mon, Danny, _he ordered himself. _Get it together. Get a grip on yourself…_

But there was nothing for him to grip onto. It had been eighteen hours, and they still didn't have the first clue as to where the children were. They'd lost Bryce to the Bill of Rights. He'd lawyered up, and once that happened, it could take hours – no – days to get one helpful word their way.

Danny wouldn't realize it for himself for days yet, but that dispirit he felt moments before was rapidly evolving into despair.

That was when the cell phone at his side rang, echoing throughout the bathroom.

He blinked at it. He let it ring twice before he lifted it from his belt. "Taylor." He sounded about how he looked.

"Danny." It was Martin, and truth be told, his voice didn't sound much better. Except, it was harder…much harder. "I just got off the phone with NYPD."

Danny blinked. NYPD? Why would they-

"Layman killed a cop."

"What?"

"An officer was put on the beat three weeks ago… We just found him now." Danny felt his blood run cold about the same time as Martin said, "Danny, I know what Layman's done to you. To yours."

Danny was lucky the sink was there to support him. Why was Martin telling him this? Why was this happening? Where- His voice kicked in. "Where's Jack?"

Martin paused. The harsh sound of wind whistled over the phone. "He's not here." Then. "We need to talk."

Slowly, like coming out of a coma, Danny began to realize. "Where?"

"Get in your car. Meet me at the precinct. And Danny, leave your civil liberties where you stand."

(x)

Samantha didn't try to stop Danny from leaving. How could she, when in truth that was exactly what the entire team, including Danny, needed most. She walked him to the door, and she told him to call. She told him that she would be there. Danny put a hand on her shoulder, but he wouldn't look at her. Samantha got the feeling that he hadn't really heard her. It was like Danny wasn't fully awake, that he was only pretending, like you did when the telephone rang in the middle of the night. With one last incoherent nod, Danny let the door swing behind him, and he left.

And slowly, inexplicably, upon his leaving, the energy in the room began to change. Samantha could physically feel his misery leave in a cloud, as if it had followed him on his way out of the door.

Samantha turned to Vivian. "Is it wrong…" she asked, "that part of me is glad he left?"

Vivian, providing her usual voice of reason, said, "Samantha, if he stayed here, he would have made us all nuts. The only way we can help Danny is if we find those kids. We couldn't do that with him here."

Samantha nodded, and at the same time, the door to the office flung open again. Hearing its hinges, she faced forward, dreading that Danny might have changed his mind and returned. Instead, Jack Malone came through the door, and it was apparent in his face. He was categorically furious.

"Fucking moron," he rasped through his clenched teeth. He reached the main table, and threw his jacket down on one of the chairs, uncharacteristically exposing his gun-shot wound. "He doesn't tell us where Jason Coliandri is. Instead, he tells us exactly where he left his last murder victim. He might as well have flushed his fuckin' life down the toilet."

Vivian walked over to the table. She brought pages of computer read-outs with her. "A man like that? Finds out he's going away for life and a day? He was just looking for a way to say 'screw you, I have the power.'"

"Yeah," Jack answered. "And now he's a prime candidate for the death penalty."

Vivian's voice kept its counsel. "After killing a cop, most definitely. Unless that lawyer of his has some magic tricks we don't know about."

Jack muttered something spiteful about his lawyer, and then, he paused. Jack let out a deep sigh and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he hadn't gotten all the way back to being FBI Task Force Supervisor, but he was getting there. "Did forensics get back to us?"

Vivian walked over to her desk and then back, holding papers outward. "They just faxed me verification. It's Jordan's DNA on the phone booth."

Unsurprised, Jack took the papers from Vivian's outstretched hand. "Then, we know she was on Birch Street. From there, she must have called her get-away car."

Samantha turned around from staring at the disappearance timeline. "Yeah, but who would she call? We have Danny at the bar until 2 a.m, and Sr. Corrione lying unconscious on the convent floor. Who else does she know?"

Vivian spoke up. "What about Bryce? She had to have his number."

Jack shook his head. "No. No, Jordan was running away from Bryce, remember?"

Samantha rejoined him. "And going with that theory, she was running because she heard word that Bryce was after her brother."

Jack squinted. "That bothers me, too. How would she hear that?"

Vivian held up a pencil and pointed at Jack. "That's where we fall short. We're assuming Jordan _knew _that her brother was going to be abducted. Maybe she didn't know. Maybe she just wanted out."

Jack nodded. "I like that theory better. Speaking of wanting out, any word from this phantom boyfriend?"

Samantha closed her eyes. That was her other headache. "He doesn't have a name. He doesn't have a number. I'm beginning to wonder if he exists at all."

Vivian put up her arms. "Stranger things have happened. Maybe she's faking it."

Jack gave another shake of his head. "No. I think that's legitimate. Pretty young girl, looking for an out. If she wanted a boyfriend, she could have had one in a heartbeat, especially with the company she keeps."

They fell into routine, that comfortable back and forth that had been missing while Danny was there. Vivian smirked to Jack. "So, I can assume that you'll want me back at those numbers."

He nodded, looking to her apologetically. "Where else do we have to go… Keep digging. The answer's in there somewhere, Viv."

Vivian went without a fuss, but Samantha watched her, understanding that she would have to relieve her soon. Cabin fever was setting in, and Vivian was too often its victim.

Out of habit, Samantha's focus set upon Jack… to find him hunched over, gripping his left bicep with a pained expression on his face. She came up behind him and gently rested her hands on his shoulders. "Now are you sorry you missed that emergency room appointment?"

Jack let out a combination groan and sigh. "I'm more sorry I missed the vending machines out front."

"Cheetos for dinner."

"Get ready. It's gonna happen again tonight."

Samantha lent Jack her sympathetic stare; Jack gave her a cynical shake of his head. Samantha sighed. Story of her life.

Samantha looked around, at the disappearance timeline, Danny's empty desk, Vivian at the phone line. She noticed one person missing. "Where's Martin?"

Jack answered. "Down at the police station, trying to clean up this mess. He said he'd be back in another half hour, give or take."

It took.

Martin was gone twice as long.


	48. Justified

Hey everyone! Another update from work! What can I say? My job inspires me to sometimes think like Danny.

Welcome to new reviewers, and thanks to regulars! ;) Thanks for being so involved! Your reward? A new nice long chapter.

(x)

As Martin headed towards FBI headquarters, he could find no feasible way to calm himself. His heartbeat raced, keeping just ahead of his blood pressure. As he entered into the Missing Persons' Bureau, he braced himself for the worst. Martin had expected the atmosphere of the office to further incite his already agitated nerves. The jolt of the office, at times violent in nature, tended to excite the young agent.

But today, after the atrocities he had witnessed, its jolt felt weak in comparison. Inexplicably, Martin's nerves began to relax. The commotion of the office instead served to steady him. Like the hum of a V-6 engine or the lull of the ocean, it soothed him with consistency.

Upon his absence, the Missing Persons' workspace had transformed into the epitome of everything an FBI office endeavored to be. Vivian manned the phones; Samantha sat across from her, scrutinizing a list of phone numbers. Martin smiled to himself. For a moment, she looked very much like a female Sherlock Holmes, missing only a pipe in the crock of her lips and a magnifying glass in her hand.

He'd never tell her, of course. They had other things to think about. At the warehouse, Martin had overheard the assignment Jack had given them. With all the read-outs at their disposal, Samantha and Vivian had gone through the list at the convent (which happened to be the shortest) and were calling all parties, questioning their involvement with St. Luke's Orphanage as well as any association to the Coliandris.

In other words, they were pushing and hoping that something would push back.

When Martin approached them, Samantha set down her receiver. "Okay, thank you…" Then, she regarded Martin with a frown. "Hey. You okay?"

Her gaze confirmed what he already knew. He looked like hell. "Yeah," he said dismissively. "Any hits?"

"Not yet," Samantha said. "But we're getting there."

Martin nodded. As his train of thought shifted, he turned his attention to the disappearance timelines. Jordan's timeline stopped at the telephone booth at Birch St. From there, they theorized that she got a ride from her mystery get-away driver. Jason's timeline, on the other hand, stopped and started with one measly line. His had not progressed since his abduction from the convent.

All that was missing was the tumbleweed.

Martin couldn't take his eyes away. "Eighteen hours," he murmured. "And not a ripple from either of these two."

In graceful movements, Samantha walked away from the phone lines and joined him at the board. "That's the problem with this case. Anyone involved with Jordan is either in jail, or didn't have the first clue as to what was going on in her life."

"Yeah, that's what they're trying to sell. But I'm not buying it."

"Who don't you buy it from?"

"Sr. Rachel," he answered without hesitation.

"What about her?"

Martin paused. "She's hiding something. I don't know what yet, but…she's got her skeletons."

"You tried baiting her?"

"Yeah. She didn't take it. Not yet, anyway."

"Assuming there is something to bait her for."

Martin had thought he'd calmed himself. He thought he had gotten himself under control. He was wrong. In a flash, irritation churned deep inside of him. It pressed against his chest. His next words were born on hot molten rocks of frustration. "We're also assuming that this case has any rhyme or reason to it at all," he reminded her. "I mean, we're assuming that Jordan knew who she got into the car with. What if she couldn't contact any one? What if no one picked up their phones? She could have gotten into whatever car stopped along the road. She could be halfway to the West Coast by now. Getting cliff-notes on her new life as a hooker or a drug mule."

Samantha physically reacted to Martin's sudden attitude. She stared at him, her eyes demanding where this new bitter philosophy was coming from. Martin saw the look, but Samantha hadn't been with him that day. She hadn't seen the black-light graffiti. She hadn't seen what was left of Officer Banks, let alone smelled what was left of him. She hadn't seen Bryce Layman. She hadn't seen that smirk on his face at the NYPD, like he'd played the perfect hand of poker and was just lounging around, waiting for the fat check from the casino bank.

Martin looked right at Samantha; that familiar haunted look flooded his brown eyes. "The truth is that we have no idea what happened to those kids. And most likely, we never will."

"Martin…!" She sputtered before demanding. "Why are you talking like this?"

"I've been thinking about this a lot, Samantha. My mind's been working it all day long. Even in the best-case scenario, that convent has something to do with their disappearance. I haven't been able to prove it. I can't even begin to prove it. We might not be able to for the next couple days, weeks, or however long. It's there, but that doesn't mean we'll reach it in time."

Samantha didn't understand. "But you had a search warrant. You searched the place, didn't you? Danny said you didn't find anything."

"C'mon, Sam. Danny didn't _want _to find anything. When we were out of the room, I questioned Sr. Corrione. That woman is somehow involved. How can you have two children under your watch 24-7 and _not _know that one of them is involved in a drug ring?"

Samantha didn't back down. "So let's go back there. Search it again."

Martin shook his head. "We won't find anything. The Catholic Church is an institution spanning thousands of years. They bury deep."

Samantha flinched. "Whoa. _That's_ not personal."

"That's what nobody gets." Martin's voice lowered darkly. "This entire case is personal."

Even though he had turned away from her, Martin could feel her eyes on his back, peering down at him. In the meantime, Samantha found her voice. "What do you mean by that?"

When Martin turned around, it was if someone had pulled up the curtain and lifted the film over his eyes. It was like that with Samantha. No matter what, he couldn't hide from her, not where it really mattered. His eyes searched hers, showing themselves for what they truly were. "No matter what happens. Whether the convent is involved or not, Danny is never going to be the same again."

Samantha drew nearer. "What happened?" The words grated against her suddenly parched throat. "Martin, what are you trying to say?"

"Someone was going to do it, Sam. It doesn't matter."

"What doesn't matter?"

"It was going to happen. All I did was make sure that Danny was the one who would do it."

She reached out, grasping him tightly by the shoulders. "What did you do?"

Martin's voice shivered. "I'm sorry, Sam. It was the only thing any of us could give him. So I gave it to him."

(x)

A lone interrogation room at the back of the NYPD precinct held its silence like a high-school detention hall. In the silence Bryce Layman stared forward, strapped to a steel chair, arms secured tightly behind his back, courtesy of police-issued handcuffs. Bryce scowled to himself. He'd spent his entire day like this… By this point, Bryce was losing his good humor with the situation.

The FBI had ruined him. They threatened him, defiled him, done everything but greased him up and aimed for penetration. Finally, when Bryce couldn't take it any more, he'd dealt them the last ace up his sleeve. The mother-fuckers deserved what they got, if only because they had put him in captivity, and challenged him to bite back – if he dared.

Despite it all – his run in with the FBI, the bullet he'd put in Malone's left shoulder, the air freshener they'd found in the warehouse – The NYPD cops had been rather gentle with his person. Bryce couldn't put it together, but after his day, his inability to function didn't surprise him. How the hell was he supposed to distinguish anything, when he was losing the circulation in his wrists with every passing second?

Bryce shirked in discomfort, trying to find a bearable position in the hard metal chair. He squirmed like that for awhile, and by the time he heard approaching footsteps, one still hadn't been found. But Bryce was no longer worried about his position in the chair. Now, he was worried about the footsteps, growing closer and closer.

Before Bryce had time to prepare, the door to the interrogation room shirked open. A young man with brown, almost black hair, in a wrinkled suit and tie entered in the room. Upon further inspection, Bryce noticed that an FBI identification badge dangled from his belt.

"FBI," Bryce drawled. "Back for more, eh?"

"I'm sorry," the man said. "What was that?"

Bryce frowned. He granted the FBI agent another once over. The drug dealer had become especially adept at categorizing people by age, race, and station. When the next person you see might be your last, you either learn that skill quickly, or you don't live until your next lesson. Bryce detected a Spanish accent. Upon looking into the man eyes, he realized that this was no Mediterranean houseboy. There was confidence, and worse, there was authority to back it up.

It made no difference to Bryce. He accosted him. "Are you deaf? I asked if you fuckheads were back for more?"

The Latino man laughed, for a moment, it appeared he was genuinely amused. "Fuckheads…" he repeated, marveling at the word. "That's a good one, Bryce. It's refreshing how witty and original insults from drug felons can be these days." The door shut behind him with a 'slam' and then a 'click' as the door was locked.

Bryce glared forward, keeping his anger in a thick blanket about him. "What do you want?"

The agent stared down at the floor. He took a moment to think on that. When he raised his eyes, they were different than they had been a second before. They were alive, incited. "I want a lot of things, Bryce. A lot of things, that I deserve and that I've worked for. But it doesn't look like I'm going to get to have those things."

Bryce shouldn't have been intimidated. He shouldn't have even cared. This was far from the first time he had been threatened. But Bryce was intimidated, and suddenly, he did care very much what was on this FBI agent's mind. For the first time in a long time, Bryce made no response.

This allowed the agent to continue. He was still smiling, but it wasn't out of kindness. The smile was strange, demented. "See, somebody took those things from me, Bryce. And this person doesn't know it yet."

Bryce found his voice. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means a lot of things…" The FBI agent neared him and gazed down upon the drug dealer. "It means that now I understand what it's like."

Bryce's eye twitched, and then, he grimaced. "What _what_is like?" he demanded.

The Latino didn't answer him though; instead he simply regarded him mutely, his gaze more intrusive than ever. He took another step forward, leaning down into Bryce Layman's face. The FBI agent was so close, that Bryce could smell him. He smelled sweat, dirt, grit…

And then, the agent spoke. His words rasped against his throat. "I know what it's like… to look at the man who's taken everything you ever cared about, and know that there's not a thing he can do to escape from you."

Panic reached out and gripped Bryce's body, so hard that he cried out, "Who the fuck are you?"

"Me?" The man spoke almost conversationally. He took off his badge and placed it in the inside of his suit jacket. "You don't need to know my name. All you need to do is think about everyone you've ever crossed…and wonder which one I am."

Bryce's breath puffed out of his chest. He pressed against his shackles. They rattled against the metal chair, but they didn't budge. It was the second time that day he had tried to break free and had been unable. Bryce stopped and stared at the man in front of him, who was now so close that their noses could have touched.

Bryce bellowed out, "You're trying to fuck with me."

The man glared at him, and Bryce watched the crazed man's eyes dilate to their breaking point. His face shaking with rage, the FBI agent hauled back and plowed a white-knuckle fist right into Bryce's cheekbone.

Bryce's face crumpled. For a drug dealer, he had a pretty high-pitched cry. He filled his lungs and screamed an unholy, wretched shriek that pierced the heavens.

The FBI agent looked down in satisfaction, and something else. Bryce was currently in too much pain to assess his own thoughts, let alone anyone else's. But years later, when he looked back, he realized it had been the madness of a man who had nothing left to lose.

The agent addressed him. "I know you think you're a tough guy, Tipo Duro," he said in his Latino accent. "But in reality, you're not worth the dirt on your face… You messed up big time the day you set foot into my orphanage." He was whispering now. "You messed up big time when you opened fire in that factory. You messed up big time when you fucked-" With an enormous grunt, the agent backhanded him across the cheek with his fist. There was an almighty clap, like thunder, and Bryce's whole body shook with the blow. "-with the only people I have to call my own!"

Bryce wailed as blood squirted from his broken nose onto his white shirt. His hands writhed behind him, leaving him open and unprotected. The entire time he was wailing, he realized that he still had no idea who this man was. No matter how often he looked at the FBI agent's face, Bryce could have sworn that he'd never set eyes on him before.

"Now, I know you think that hurt a whole hell of a lot," the Latino said. "But it's going to hurt a lot more when you realize…" He leaned down and whispered. "That this is only the beginning."

The agent's fists plowed against Bryce Layman's neck, arms, and stomach, leaving him useless in any retaliation. The agent was shouting – no screaming – damn near incoherently. What Bryce couldn't understand, even in the midst of the beating, was where the rage was coming from. What had he done to this man? What could he possibly have done to deserve this?

The agent before him believed that Bryce deserved every strike, every hit, and every wail. That rage that hadn't had a place or person to rest itself on now had a focus.

Bryce received everything he had coming to him and then some, as the rest of the people responsible for the disappearance of Jordan and Jason Coliandri were not there to take their share.


	49. Consequences

Finally, a break from work! Sorry, it's taking so long, guys. Graduate school is terribly time-consuming. But hopefully,it's making mekeep this quality vs. quantity. Thanks for being so patient! I'm so glad you're enjoying this so far! (Because I am, too).

(x)

Once Martin told Samantha about Danny Taylor, Bryce Layman, and their arranged meeting at the NYPD, he knew it was only a matter of time before the news worked its way to the rest of the team. Samantha would tell Vivian, and from there, it followed that Jack would be next. Vivian had taken the heat for him before; she wouldn't take it again. And Samantha? Her loyalties were clear.

Martin wanted nothing more than to disappear into the walls of the FBI headquarters. Instead, he retreated back to his workspace, not unlike a dog with its tail between its legs. Once seated there, he found no solace. His desk area was open and vulnerable. He had never liked the absence of walls, and it especially bothered him today, when he wanted solitude so badly.

As on other days, Martin resigned himself to the lack of privacy, which gave way to other, more pressing thoughts. He stared blankly into the cold metal of his desk. He couldn't understand where he'd gone wrong. An hour ago it had felt so logical, so right. An NYPD officer handed him the interrogation room chart and said, "You get first blood. You going in yourself?" With a pen in his hand and a long stretch of time available for interrogating Bryce Layman, it had not been a difficult decision to make. Christ, the call to Danny had almost dialed itself.

The equation had been simple. Layman kills a cop. Layman kidnaps Danny's children. Layman gets a taste of Danny's insurmountable rage. Danny walks away untouched. No harm. No foul.

Martin frowned deeply. Now, only an hour later, he began to doubt the brilliance of his plan. The feeling was an all too familiar one. He'd often felt this way in the presence of his father, when he failed to live up to his impossible standards, and now, that gut-wrenching dread returned ten-fold.

It was no surprise as Martin sat there that his thoughts turned to his family. What would they do when they heard about this? They would be disappointed, especially the men in his family. The males he'd grown up around had tried to set an example. They were able to make a decision and stand firmly by that decision, never harboring the slightest seed of doubt.

For years, Martin had watched those men – his father in particular. He revered them with a sense of awe and wonder. They had seemed like gods or generals of war, able to rule with a tight fist and unwavering resolve. When he was younger, Martin had been determined to follow in their footsteps. He engineered himself to imitate them so fully, that he created his own nuclear morality. For years, that morality governed him flawlessly.

To this day, Martin couldn't pinpoint exactly when his black-and-white system of morals had blurred to gray, but he did know it had happened while he was working in the Missing Persons' Unit. Maybe it was years ago, when Anwar was gunned down in the hospital. Maybe it was when he and Jack drove Spaulding out to the caves, breaking every rule there was to break. Martin's neck felt a cold chill. Maybe it was when he yanked out his .45… When he killed a man for the little girl trapped in that backroom…

Martin physically shook the thought away. The exact moment was irrelevant. Once he entered into the Missing Person's Unit, ethical dilemmas raged one after another. They plagued his conscience, and with every action, every staunch decision, Martin felt his principles wane. The effects weren't limited to just his mind either. The headaches began, and then the stomachaches. They got so intense that he even went to the doctor's to make sure it wasn't an ulcer. However, his real problem did not lie in the physical. Martin was feeling the sickness of doubt and regret. His nuclear morality – which he had so singularly relied upon – was failing him.

Through trial and error, he learned that he was not his father, and that perhaps he should try not to be. Martin slowly learned to question his ethics. On his shaky road to self-awareness, he had worked alongside the Missing Person's Team, discovering to how to do his job and do it well. Without a willingness to be wrong, Martin never could have survived the job, not this long. He considered the sacrifice a necessary evil, and he hadn't looked back since.

But as his new systems of behavior failed him, Martin again wished for his father's single-mindedness. As he sat there, part of him still could not believe the situation he'd gotten himself into. Three years ago, if someone would have told Martin that he would be sitting at his desk waiting to be reamed out by his supervisor after sending a wild Danny Taylor to beat the crap out of an uncooperative witness… He would have boomed a condescending laugh in the face of his fortuneteller.

In his mind, Martin saw himself at the interrogation room desk. He flinched as he remembered how he had smiled. Martin felt so vindicated, so completely justified in his actions. When he signed out a time slot for the FBI, he felt nothing but an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. The memory turned sour in his stomach.

Other men might have shrugged it off. Martin had passed that stage. He was not like the men from his childhood. He dwelled. He assessed. He reconsidered. And his punishment was shame.

"Fitzgerald."

The young agent gazed up to see Jack Malone standing not two feet away from his desk. Jack's face was as smooth and featureless as a sheet of tempered steel, but his eyes gave him away. Martin had taken numerous classes on profiling, but right now he didn't need any of them to see that Jack was infuriated.

"May I see you in my office?"

The request was not one. Martin got up from his desk and followed.

(x)

Since Martin's first day on the job, Jack recognized his agent's blatant disregard for authority. He was a wild card – pure and simple – who could not be trusted to restrain himself. Audacity made Martin rash, reckless, and at times, a little stupid. If that was all the agent had, Jack would have sent him packing years ago. However, the flipside of Martin's audacity gave him merit. Born of the same proclivity, Martin could be bold, confident, and very brave. With his impulsive nature came drive and passion. He brought balance to the team, evening out Samantha's preoccupation with protocol, Vivian's penchant for self-sacrifice, and Danny's hot temper.

Though Jack could not condone his agent's actions, he could empathize with them. Jack broke procedure consistently to get the job done. He loved the rush, the powerful feeling of tossing the rulebook aside, with the hope of justice being served. His status allowed him minor rebellions, and just in taking them, he inspired others to do the same.

Knowing all this, Jack should have had these thoughts sooner – preferably before he sent Martin to coordinate with the NYPD. After finding Officer Lakin Banks, Martin offered to make the trip. Preoccupied with other matters, Jack allowed it. Alarm bells did not immediately sound in his mind. Martin had earned his trust, and Jack tried very dearly to place his faith in his young agent's abilities.

But after waiting for a full hour for Martin to return, Jack knew that something had gone wrong. Jack hadn't known just how wrong, until he'd been informed of Danny and Martin's power play. Jack frowned. The two of them had been doing a lot of that lately. Their shaky alliance had strengthened over the time they'd worked together, and it was now as rock solid as concrete.

A small part of Jack wondered why he had been surprised by their actions. The rest of him bore fury like the rising dawn. Martin saw it, just as clearly as Jack felt it. However, the true manifestation of Jack's anger did not reveal itself until they were inside his office and the door slammed shut behind them.

Across from his desk, Jack raged at Martin. "What the hell were you thinking?" For a moment, Martin sputtered, but Jack shouted overtop him. "What the fuck were you thinking sending Danny to the NYPD and into a room with Bryce Layman, cuffed to an office chair!"

As Jack expected, Martin immediately rose to his defense. "Jack, just listen to me-"

"You think people haven't been talking about this case? About Agent Taylor's involvement with Jordan Coliandri? Do you understand the implications of this case? What it could mean for Danny? For his career?"

Martin kept his face tight as a mask, refusing to share in Jack's fury. "Jack, it doesn't matter."

"Have you lost your mind?" he asked incredulously. "You think people around this office don't talk about Danny and his iron fists? He's been referred to as a ticking time bomb by the board of supervisors."

"Jack-"

"They call him 'Gestapo'. Every month there's a new complaint filed against him."

Louder this time. "Jack, listen to me." It took all of his will power, but Jack held his tongue, allowing his agent to speak. Martin used slow, careful wording. "No matter what, it was going to happen. Someone was going to do it. We both know that."

Jack focused on his agent and demanded. "What was going to happen? Bryce Layman was going to get his ass handed to him? All right, maybe he was. But _not_ by this office, and not by Danny Taylor."

Martin stared forward, unflinching. A strong sensation filled his eyes. Jack had seen it before. It was vindication. "Why not? If it was going to be someone, why shouldn't it be Danny?"

"This might come as a surprise to you, Agent Fitzgerald. But we are not the NYPD. We do not operate on impulse."

"Oh, c'mon. We do it every day." Martin pointed at him. "What do you call what happened at the hospital?"

Jack's eyes and voice chilled. "That had a purpose."

"Yeah? Well, so did sending Danny in to question Layman."

"Question," Jack repeated. His voice rose. "You honestly think Danny _questioned _him?"

"All I did was send him in there," Martin shot back. "The rest was up to Danny."

Listening to his agent, Jack felt his anger escalate to its peak. For a moment, he honestly could not believe what he was hearing. Jack acted on auto-pilot, his mind still taking in the fresh words his agent shared with him. He squinted his eyes at Martin. His voice was quieter, but it held just as much intensity. "You don't get it, do you?"

Martin pursed his lips and waited for his supervisor to continue.

In calm, clear wording, Jack stressed. "I don't know if this has occurred to you, but Danny doesn't have a government net to fall back on. You sent him out there on a limb, and when he falls, it'll be this office that goes down."

Sounding very sure of himself, Martin said, "That's not going to happen."

Jack repeated. "It's not going to happen. What makes you think that?"

Martin continued undaunted. "Danny's name is nowhere on the docket. For all purposes, he was never even there today. The only name I gave them was mine," he said. "If NYPD needs someone to blame, it'll be me."

A look of utter disbelief washed over Jack's face. A long sigh pressed out of his body as he ran his fingers through his graying hair. Of course. Again, he thought, why was he surprised? "You think NYPD will blame you."

"I've thought this through, Jack. I'll take the consequences."

Jack jaw clenched as he spoke. "And when you were thinking about the consequences, did you stop to think about what office you belong to? Who you represent?" At that, Martin had no response. "No matter what name they find on that docket, this unit will take responsibility."

"Jack, they won't blame you," he tried to make his supervisor understand. "I'll take responsibility. I was willing to do that from the start."

Jack shook his head, absolutely staggered. It amazed him. Martin actually thought that he was worried about himself. "I'm not talking about my standing, Martin," he said. "I'm talking about Jason and Jordan Coliandri. Two hours went by while you were having your puppet show. We're no closer to finding them, and you're wasting time making sure Bryce Layman gets his. And while he's in the hospital, healing up and talking to his lawyer, you can bet he's not going to cooperate with us. His testimony's lost, and because of that, the kids might be, too."

For the first time since the argument began, Martin's face went slack. The first inklings of realization brushed across his features. His face grew pale. "Jack, I-"

"Go home, Martin."

Jack said it so calmly and clearly that his words could not be construed, but Martin still asked, "What did you say?"

"You heard me," he said. "Get out of here. This office needs to operate, and it can't do that with you here."

Normally, Martin Fitzgerald's chest would have risen. He would have put up a fight, and he would have challenged Jack's decision. However, today was anything but normal. At the order, Martin's shoulders dropped. He stared straight at Jack, waiting for him to amend his decision.

Jack kept his face fixed down on his desk.

Standing there, Martin blinked and licked his lips, but felt neither. Machine-like, he turned away from his supervisor. His mind was stagnant; he was not even aware of the thoughts that were queued up, a hair's breadth from his brain, patiently waiting for their chance to be processed. Despite his earlier bravado, Martin could not recall a time when he had been so chastised. He would have loved to have felt fury. To have made a dramatic promise to find Jason and Jordan no matter what the cost.

But really he just felt terrified.


	50. 20 Hours Missing

Chapter 50! It's taken me awhile, but hopefully it's worth it. I hope you can forgive me for the time it takes to write these chapters. Life so often gets in the way (and it's good when it does, right?). Thanks for all your reviews! Thanks for everyone who's sticking with this story. I know I am.

(x)

Samantha looked up as Martin Fitzgerald stepped out of Jack's office. He walked up to his desk and picked up his jacket.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

Martin stared his frown away from her. He threw on his jacket and picked up his briefcase. "Goodnight, Sam."

Samantha rose to her feet. "Martin."

He quickened his pace as he went through the doors.

Samantha walked double time to catch up. "Martin!"

Martin hurried out of the office and caught the elevator just as it opened. When he turned around, he had just enough time to make eye contact with Samantha. He looked at her sadly and said, "I'm sorry, Sam."

The elevator doors slammed shut, forcing Samantha to come to a halt. She stared at the pristine metal doors before she turned back and headed for Jack's office.

Samantha burst inside without knocking. "Martin just left the office," she told Jack.

"I know," he said.

"What did you say to him?"

"I asked him to leave."

"What?" she demanded. "Why would you do that?"

Jack looked up from his desk. "Do you want me to draw you a map?"

Samantha pinned Jack with her stare. "Where would it lead? To where we lose all trace of Jordan and Jason?"

"It was _my _call. I did what I had to," Jack spat back. He lowered his voice as he watched Samantha hold her head in her hand. "I couldn't keep him here, Sam. You know that. Not after the crap he pulled."

"We can't run a team with three people, Jack."

"We have before." Jack paused to gather his thoughts. Then, he asked, "How're the numbers coming?"

"How're the numbers coming?" she repeated incredulously. "Jack, you just threw Martin out in the middle of an investigation-"

"Yeah, and one he almost cost us. Those kids are still out there, dead or alive, and that's not all. When Martin sent Danny into that interrogation room, he may as well have sent him to the office of investigations. What do you want me to do about it, Sam? I can't turn back the clock." He looked straight into her eyes, and his voice lost some of its hostility. "But I can make sure that he doesn't do anything more to disrupt our chances of finding them."

Samantha stared forward, breathing hard, but she had no other comments to make.

Jack asked her again, much softer this time, "How're the numbers coming?"

Samantha shook her head. "There's still nothing."

"That can change," Jack said.

Samantha gazed down at him with a look that said, 'It has to.'

If anything, Jack agreed with her. He broke their stare and got up from his desk. "I have to go to the NYPD. Someone has to explain all this."

He waited for Samantha to say something, to reprimand him or correct him in some way. She didn't. "We'll keep the phone lines open," she said. "Someone still might have seen something."

Jack nodded. "If any new information comes in, call me." He shrugged into his jacket. "And if Van Doren calls-"

"We'll keep her busy."

Jack reached out and put a hand on Samantha's shoulder. He held it there a second longer than he should have. "I'll be back," he promised. As Jack left the office, he looked down at his watch. It was nearly eight 'o clock.

Jack sighed as he walked down the hallway. He hadn't meant to lose his temper, but he'd already lost his patience. During his time as supervisor, his branch of the Missing Person's Division had broken nearly every rule the book gave them. Every time there had been a viable reason. But this time, Jack didn't have the first idea how he was going to explain it. He could barely reason through it himself.

He hoped that Vivian and Samantha would make progress while he was gone. They needed something soon before the end of the night. New York City never slept, but too often, the city's offices closed before midnight.

(x)

St. Luke's Church was peaceful at night. Not many people knew that.

At eight 'o clock on a weeknight, St. Luke's regular churchgoers left its pews and aisles empty. Light from a streetlamp filtered in through the chapel's stained glass windows that lined the sides of the walls. Flame from a single candle flickered, casting a halo of light against the white marble alter. Aside from that, darkness bathed the church.

A single occupant looked up from the front pew where he knelt down in prayer. After Danny left NYPD headquarters, he drove through the streets of the Bronx, searching for anyone who even looked like Jordan and Jason. He found no one. Not one person he saw matched either description.

Danny hunched over in the pew. When he realized what he was doing, that he was driving through the streets with his gun and badge, ready to stop anyone that even looked like the children - that's when he knew he had to stop, before he caused anyone any more pain.

Danny leaned his head against the cool wood of the church pew. He shivered as he wrapped his arms tightly around his shoulders. When he was younger, much younger, Danny would imagine that they were not his arms, but God's arms, holding him safe through the night.

Now he felt nothing of God's arms, nor His safety.

He almost killed a man. Granted, that man was Bryce Layman and he probably deserved it, but he was still a person. Danny had come close. He'd beaten Bryce Layman within an inch of his life, and worse – he enjoyed it. Danny was certain that Bryce was on his way back to the hospital by now. He'd spend at least a couple days there by Danny's estimate, considering his injuries.

_Good, _he thought viciously. He glared forward, so hard that for a moment he couldn't see straight. _Let the bastard rot there._

His glare rose to stare into a marble statue of Jesus Christ. Danny whispered against the silence of the church. "Where are you?"

The statue stared back. It offered no answered.

"We made a deal, Dios Mio," Danny rasped. "We made a deal seven years ago. I do my job. I find the missing of this city. You do yours. You keep the people in my life safe." Danny's face twisted in revulsion. "I've done my part. For seven years, I've done my part. In those seven years, I've done nothing but protect those that can't protect themselves. Where's your part of the deal?" Danny spoke boldly to his creator, but it made little difference to him. He'd spoken boldly to powerful men before.

"Where are they?" His shout reverberated against the walls of the church. "Why won't you tell me? I've done nothing! Nothing you wouldn't have done yourself!"

Danny clenched his bruised hands on top of the pew. He closed his eyes, and against his eyelids, he saw Bryce's terrified face. He remembered pounding his fists into Bryce's body again and again. Danny buried his face in his hands. "Is this my punishment?"

Danny looked up into the eyes of the statue. "Then, punish me. Punish _me _– not them!" He shouted, not caring how far his voice carried. "They've done _nothing._ _Nothing_!"

Danny's hands held together in a bloodless grip. "Just bring them back," he whispered. "I'll give you anything, but I can't give you this. I can't give them up. Just get them back here. Just let me look at them again … please. Please. I'll do whatever it takes. Just bring them home. Please, please… please don't make me let go… Just bring them back. Just bring them back."

Danny whispered his mantra over and over again.

_Just bring them back. Just bring them back._

Danny rested his head against his folded hands. He stayed that way for a long while with his hands locked in prayer. So intent was Danny that he barely heard soft footsteps walk up the aisle of the church.

The footsteps stopped beside him, and Danny felt a warm hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Fr. Jorge gazing down upon him. Fr. Jorge stared down upon him, worry set deep in his brown eyes. "Mi hijo."

Somehow Danny found his voice. "Mi padre."

"You are back again."

"I didn't know where else to go."

"This is the church, Danny," he said. "God's doors are always open. Whenever you need them."

Danny gazed up at him, his entire body drawn with exhaustion.

"Que lastima," Fr. Jorge breathed. "You look very old tonight."

It took all of Danny's energy to smirk. "As old as you?"

"Ha. No one is that old."

Danny spurted a short, sad laugh. They both stayed there, Danny kneeling down in the pew, Fr. Jorge waiting patiently by his side. Finally, Danny turned to the priest and said, "I have to talk, padre."

Fr. Jorge gripped Danny's shoulder. "Come," he said. "We'll talk."

Danny looked back up at the statue of Christ. It kept its silence. Without another word, Danny got up out of the pew and followed Fr. Jorge out of the church.


	51. Behind Closed Doors

Hey, another update! Less than a week this time! Thanks to anmodo, Zonya, Loozy, Loopy-Laura, and rozzy07 for the love. :) 

(x)

If there had been a contest for the cleanest police department in the United States, there was no doubt in Jack Malone's mind that the NYPD would come in dead last. He could see that "the war zone" – a nickname his colleagues had for the downtown precinct – had survived yet another wild day. Police officers and criminals alike left their trail. Papers and wrappers littered the floor. Shouts and curses could be heard off to the side, where the local screwballs were being processed for crimes like drunk driving and indecent exposure. Desks covered inmountains of paperwork and Styrofoam coffee cups amassed around the office.

Jack sat in a chair missing an armrest. The office reeked of urine and vomit, but really it was only appropriate. The icing on the cake from hell.

Jack waited patiently, hands resting on his knees. He knew this place got busy, and at eight 'o clock at night, things were just heating up. Even with all the chaos brewing around him, the solitude gave Jack time to think.

And he needed to think.

After a good fifteen minutes, Detective Frank Sanders came to greet him. The past few hours hadn't been kind to the detective. His mat of white hair stuck up around his head and ears. His tie had a stain on it, as did his wrinkled shirt. Jack didn't want to think about what the stain was. He hoped it was mustard.

Frank put out a hand which Jack shook. "Special Agent Malone."

Jack got up from his seat. "Detective Sanders."

Frank expelled a heavy sigh. He scratched his head. "I know why you're here."

Jack nodded. He kept quiet, an old interrogation technique. If enough silence passed by, the other person eventually would say something, start explaining things to fill in the silence.

Frank didn't bite.

After enough time passed, Jack gave in and took the lead. "I came to talk about what happened here today."

Jack didn't have to elaborate; Frank knew exactly what he meant. "Yeah. Yeah, I think we better." Frank turned around and motioned towards a room off to the side. "Here. We'll step into my office."

Jack followed Frank out of the main room, and they closed the door behind them. They talked for quite some time, but then again, they had a lot to talk about.

(x)

Back at St. Luke's Church, Fr. Jorge led Danny Taylor down a side hallway and into a section of the building closed off from the public. At the end of the hallway Fr. Jorge stopped at a wide oak door, which he unlocked. Danny followed the priest inside. Upon entering, he gazed around the quiet rectory.

Dark reds and browns painted the walls and carpeted the floors. The living room was modestly decorated with simple wooden furniture, a couch, and a recliner. A light layer of dust could be seen over awards and certificates of recognition that hung on the walls. A few trinkets, Danny assumed from thankful parishioners, were cluttered on a desk in the corner. The room had a warm feel to it and the faint scent of cinnamon and cigars.

For Danny, it was like entering into a time warp. The room had barely changed at all. Danny took a seat on the couch while Fr. Jorge went into a small adjoining kitchen. A few minutes later, the priest came back carrying a steaming hot mug.

Fr. Jorge sat across from Danny in the recliner and handed him the mug. "Here. Drink this. You will feel better."

Danny doubted that, but he took the mug with a muted 'thank you.' He sipped what he learned was a strong-smelling tea. The liquid steamed down his throat, warming him from the inside out.

"My grandmother used to make me this tea when I was very young," Fr. Jorge told Danny. "She would always give it to me before we sat down for a long talk."

Danny studied the deep red carpet. "Is that what we're having?"

Fr. Jorge opened his arms. "That is up to you, hijo."

A long pause lingered between them before Danny said, "I need this to be under oath."

"We'll keep to formality then. How long has it been since your last confession?"

"It has been five months since my last confession."

Fr. Jorge sat back in his chair, thus ending with protocol. Under the legal protection of private confession between priest and parishioner Danny could speak his mind with no fear of legal repercussions. He whispered as he had in the church. "The case isn't going well."

Fr. Jorge's silence lent him room to continue.

"We found Jordan's blood on a telephone booth outside of the detention center." Danny ran his hand over his face. "That's it. That's all we've found. We still have no trace of Jason. Everywhere we look … nothing."

Fr. Jorge frowned. Now he was the one looking old and despairing. "The children ask many questions about their disappearance, but there are none for me to answer." His voice grew soft. "There are some no one can answer." He looked back up to Danny. "Have any suspects been found?"

"We found the man responsible," Danny said. "A drug dealer. He took them, padre."

Fr. Jorge spared a moment. He closed his eyes. Danny knew it would be difficult for the priest to hear such news, but he needed to know. If they were going to keep talking, he needed to know. "His name is Bryce Layman. Kylie saw him break into the orphanage. She heard him take Jason in the middle of the night. Layman conned Jordan into running drugs through the city. We think he took Jason to make an example out of her."

The news seemed to physically weigh upon the priest's shoulders. "Oh, Dios Mio."

"He won't tell us where he took them, padre. We tried, but he's not talking."

It took a few moments, but Fr. Jorge worked against the pain showing on his face. He took deep, cleansing breaths, and he surfaced. "This man. He is the one who attacked Rachel?"

Danny's voice shook when he said, "Yes."

"He has admitted to these crimes?"

"No. But we know he did them."

Fr. Jorge's frown deepened. "You've spoken to him?"

Danny stared his fierce glare into the carpet. The deep red of the carpet matched the film he saw through his eyes. "I thought I was going to. I just wanted to talk to him. Maybe knock him around a little to get some information. Then I saw him. I saw that son of a bitch sitting there, with his hands cuffed behind his back." Danny spoke about it in an eerily calm voice, as if he were describing a normal everyday occurrence. "I took one look at him, and I knew. I knew what I was going to do."

Fr. Jorge shook his head. "Danny…"

He didn't even register the sound of his name. "He started to insult me. Tried to rile me up. The whole time all I could see was Jordan in that same interrogation room, telling me that Bryce would hurt her and Jason if she ever talked." Danny patted his lips. His mouth was as dry as cotton. "I lost it."

Fr. Jorge looked to Danny's bruised knuckles. They trembled. "Is he alive?" he asked.

Danny nodded. "I checked his pulse. He was alive when I left."

The priest breathed a thankful breath. He murmured a short prayer in Spanish.

"There was nothing I could do," Danny said. "I couldn't walk away."

Fr. Jorge looked to Danny. "Dios gave you legs, Danny."

Danny's anger flared back up on instant. "Dios gave me nothing," he raged. "No, wait. I take that back. He gave me Jordan, and he gave me Jason. Then, the bastard Layman took them away. That piece of shit laid a hand on Jordan, Kylie, Rachel, and then Jason. He terrorized them, padre." Danny's eyes smoldered as he looked up to the priest. "So I terrorized him back."

"Vengeance is the Lord's." Fr. Jorge's voice was calm, but firm. "You know this."

"Yeah, well, he didn't get to it fast enough."

A deep frown pulled at the lines of his face. "There are other ways."

"No. There stopped being other ways when Layman came into this orphanage. He broke into our home. He kidnapped our children."

"The law will deal with him-"

"That's not good enough ¡El es un asesino! He put us through hell! He destroyed everything safe about this place. He killed-" Danny's voice cracked. "He could have killed them both."

"You do not know that yet."

"I know!" Danny's hoarse voice bellowed. "I know they could be dead. I know all the terrible things he could have done to them. Nobody knows that better than I do!"

Fr. Jorge stared at Danny – hard, but said nothing.

Danny raked a hand through his dirty hair, pushing back the sweat on his forehead. "¿Qué hace padre? Don't look at me that way."

"I know you are hurting, hijo," Despite the look Danny gave him, Fr. Jorge had only compassion in his tone. "You have been hurting for so long."

"I'm not sorry." Danny tried to keep up the hatred in his voice, but he couldn't stop his voice from trembling. "The bastard deserved what he got."

Fr. Jorge reached out. He took the mug from Danny's hands and set it on the table. Fr. Jorge put a hand on Danny's shoulder to steady him. It only seemed to make Danny Taylor's body quake more. Doctors would call it shock. Psychologists would call it trauma. The truth was that Danny just couldn't take another minute alone.

"Forgive me, father." Danny put his head in his hands. He felt tears build against his eyelids, but he refused to let them fall. "I'll never be sorry."

"Mi hijo," he breathed. He gently gripped Danny's shoulder. "You are still so angry…"

Danny's voice cracked again. "I've made some mistakes." He slowly raised his head to face Fr. Jorge. Pain stemmed across Danny's face. "Padre, I've made so many mistakes."

A sympathetic gaze set into Fr. Jorge's old eyes. He remained silent, allowing Danny the space and time to say whatever burdened his mind.

"I got too close," Danny said. "Jack always told me. I never listened to him. But the whole time – every day I spent with them – somewhere I knew I was getting too close."

Fr. Jorge quietly sighed and pulled back his hand. "We have spoken about this before. Danny, your job may ask you not to become so involved in the lives of those you find, but both you and I – we know that the only way to reach people – to truly reach people – is to care about them."

"I've been trained." He stressed each word. "I've been trained to know better."

Fr. Jorge brushed those thoughts aside. "God has different laws than your FBI office, Daniel. Becoming too close, loving too much. These are not the evils they are inside your office." Fr. Jorge leaned forward, so that he was closer to Danny when he said, "I have known you a long time, hijo. Longer than most. This case … This is not about getting too close to Jordan or Jason. This is not about the love you feel for the children here, and yes, for Rachel, too. This is not about Bryce Layman or any other person involved in their disappearance." Fr. Jorge shook his head. "That is only surface. It is not about those things."

Danny stared up with wide, sad eyes. Though he didn't say it, his look seemed to say 'if not those things, then what?'

The soft light from one of the lamps in the small living room caught the grave stare in Fr. Jorge's eyes. "Danny, this is about a past you will not face and a family you pretend you don't have."


	52. Interchange

It's been so nice to write this story again. Despite all the bitter angst, it feels like summer to me – because that's when I get a chance to write it! I want to thank Loozy, Loopey-Laura, rozzy, anmodo, and jewelbaby for reviews! We hit 200! ;D You guys rule!

(x)

After Jack left for the NYPD, Samantha situated herself at a worktable across from Vivian. She stared down at a computer ream of paper. Her brown eyes glazed over as she tapped her pen, unaware of the quiet rhythm thumping from her desktop.

Vivian didn't raise her eyes, just her eyebrows. "Something on your mind?"

"Yeah, you could say that."

Vivian tilted her head, as if to say 'fair enough.' "Care to share?"

"Alright," Samantha said. Whether she intended it or not, attitude saturated her tone. "What the hell kind of investigation are we running here?"

_Huh,_ Vivian thought. _So we aren't going to sugarcoat the obvious._ Not that Samantha normally did. Good thing, too. As far as work was concerned, it was one of her best qualities. "Are we talking about Martin, Jack, or Danny?"

"Right now?" She lifted the packet of papers. "Danny."

Vivian sucked in an anxious breath. They'd been spending a lot of time with those phone numbers, more than Vivian had ever personally desired. Though the numbers weren't telling on Jordan's fabled boyfriend, they'd shared other secrets along the way – mostly about Danny Taylor.

Samantha started to count on her fingers. "Let's start from the beginning. A year ago, Danny personally sets Jordan and Jason up at St. Luke's orphanage. He gets so involved that he calls the orphanage non-stop – at least once a day. Sometimes as early as …" She used her pen to scroll down the paper until she found the line she was looking for, and then she circled it. "Two a.m. Most likely to Jordan Coliandri, and if not to Jordan, to Sr. Rachel – who helps raise the children there."

Vivian had her own perceptions of the phone records, but she kept them to herself. Samantha was on a roll now. She was willing to ride it out. Samantha was working up to something. Vivian just hoped it wasn't a breakdown.

Samantha released the papers, and they hit against the table with a crisp slap. She continued to count on her fingers. "He gets so wrapped up in them personally that he starts volunteering there on weekends and some weekdays, and it doesn't stop there. According to Jack, Danny picked Jordan up at all hours of the night, no matter what section of New York she was in, most likely when she was done dropping off Bryce's care packages."

Samantha held up three fingers now. "When Jordan gets picked up for drug trafficking, Danny can't handle it. He goes Margaritaville, tops out at the bar. Then, nursing a hangover from the night before, he finds out that Jordan and Jason are _both _missing, comes in today and … and … he goes postal. He uses Bryce as his own personal punching bag and takes off."

Vivian silently held her chin in her hand. Samantha listed the facts in baldly simple terms, but no matter how detached they tried to be – at the end of the day they were all a team. No matter how necessary it was to the case, speaking about Danny's involvement felt like a breach of privacy, or worse, like betrayal.

Samantha appeared too riled up to share in Vivian's sentiments. She threw open her arms. "How did this happen?"

"Which part?" Vivian asked.

"Any of it."

"Well, let's take Bryce Layman. Danny didn't find that interrogation room by himself," Vivian reminded her. "He had help with that one."

"Yeah. Which brings me to my next point. Martin," Samantha said. She got up from the table. "He walked into the NYPD like he was mounting a hostile takeover."

Vivian spoke softly and slowly, like a teacher speaking to a student who is a little bit slower than the others. "Martin just got done finding the body of a police officer. He snapped. It happens."

"No." Samantha shook her head again. "He didn't snap. He knew exactly what he was doing."

"Oh, c'mon, Sam," Vivian drawled out. "Nobody knows that but Martin."

Samantha put emphasis on each word. "He thought about it." Though Vivian didn't like to admit it, her words held clout. Samantha had gotten to know Martin well over the past few months, better perhaps than she'd planned. She knew how he thought, and right now, it gave her authority. "He knew what he was doing. He knew what would happen, and he didn't care. He broke the rules anyway, and damn the consequences."

Vivian leveled her stare at Samantha. "And where do you think he learned _that_ trick?"

(x)

At the mention of his family and his past all in the same breath, the hot temper drained from Danny's features. His face went ashen. "What are you talking about?"

Fr. Jorge faced Danny in the small rectory. "I am talking about your brother and your parents."

Danny's back went as stiff as a rail. His voice was hard – final. "No. They've got nothing to do with this."

The priest leaned forward, closer to Danny. "You have gone too long, hijo." His voice grew harder in time with Danny's. "The more you push them away, the more they will haunt you."

Danny's words came out flat and emotionless. "My parents are dead."

"And your brother?"

"He may as well be."

Fr. Jorge frowned. "Rafael is alive-"

"Don't mention their names."

Fr. Jorge kept his composure. "Why not?"

Danny's glare came back. It started out cold, but then grew hotter as he began to speak. "All you know are their names. You don't know who they are."

"Whoever they are," he said softly. "I feel sorry for them."

Danny sneered. "If only you knew them, padre, you wouldn't waste your sympathy."

"It is not my sympathy they need."

Danny tried get rid of the sharp emotions brewing just beneath his surface, like a person who fears he or she is losing their mind will block out phantom voices. The dead were dead, he told himself. When a person saw dead bodies as often as Danny did, he understood just how useless the dead were. Danny let none of the emotion he was feeling slip into his voice. "They need nothing," he said dismissively. "They're God's problem. Not mine."

For the first time since Danny had known him, Fr. Jorge looked upon him with not understanding, not compassion, not even anger – but disappointment. "They are your own flesh and blood, Danny."

"No, that's where you're wrong, padre. They were a last name, and now they're not even that."

Fr. Jorge shook his head. "The way you speak of them is wrong."

"Who are you, padre?" Danny demanded. "Huh? You think you know my family because I mentioned them once or twice in confession?"

Fr. Jorge stood his ground. "It's been more than once or twice."

(x)

Samantha stared at Vivian from her position beside the disappearance timeline, still not sure whether she heard Vivian correctly. "Wait a minute. How is this Jack's fault?" she demanded.

Vivian put up her hands. "Take it any way you want, Samantha. All I'm saying is that with the way Jack's run this place in the past year and a half… I'm not surprised."

"Martin did this of his own volition."

Vivian tilted her head in that questioning way she so often did. "Are you so sure of that?"

Samantha's eyes squinted. Without a word, she asked Vivian to spell out exactly what she meant by that.

She obliged. "My point is that we don't know what was going through Jack's head when he sent Martin to the NYPD, and we don't know what was going through Martin's when he gave Danny his interrogation slot. We can't. But none of that matters. It was Danny who went into that room."

Samantha still refused to back down. "Danny's gone off the deep end. We knew that would happen. It was Martin who put him in the express lane."

"They made mistakes, like we all have. That's not what's important-"

"Danny's mistakes I can understand, Viv. But Martin has the outside perspective that Danny doesn't. He just chose not to use it."

Vivian pinned Samantha with her frown. "You act like you're so removed from all this." Samantha looked up to find Vivian staring straight at her. "You know exactly why Martin put him in an interrogation room with Bryce Layman. He did it for the same reason you went out to get Danny after his night at the bar, and for the same reason Jack took this case."

"Yes," Samantha loudly agreed. "We care about him, but that doesn't mean Martin or Danny had the right to physically assault a suspect."

Vivian's thick New York accent became thicker as she answered Samantha back. "Martin thought he was doing Danny a favor by sending him in there."

"Yeah, and because of that, Danny almost killed Bryce Layman."

Vivian spoke again before Samantha could. "Danny has been traumatized. Those kids were like family to him-"

Samantha interrupted her to make a point. "Our families have been involved before, and it's never gotten to be this bad."

"That's because the things that have to do with Danny's family are coming out now in this case," Vivian told her. "Whatever happened to him, to his parents, to his brother is so painful that he can't even talk about it." Vivian pointed to the pictures of the children staring back from the disappearance timeline. "Whatever happened to him, these kids remind him of it. Just like Clare Metcalf, just like half the troubled teens that come through here."

Vivian turned back to face Samantha. "You talk about getting over-involved and breaking boundaries… but Danny didn't get drawn into this case out of romance or personal gain or revenge or any other of a million wrong reasons. When Danny's out there, he's not just saving Jordan and Jason. He's saving himself."


	53. Ground Zero

This chapter was emotional for me, and hopefully that comes through. As always, thanks for the reviews (especially to anmodo, politik, and Loozy for this past chapter!) You let me know there are readers out there.

(x)

"It's been more than once or twice."

At Fr. Jorge's last comment, Danny Taylor squeezed his eyes shut. Throughout the day from hell, his headache had come and gone – except it was never really gone. Even when the pain subsided, he knew it was there hiding in the background just waiting to slink to the front of his mind, like a horror movie monster that would not die. Now, the headache came back to life with a new surge of power. It pulsed and snarled at his temples.

Danny's voice was measured but strained, the voice of a man losing the battle with his temper. "I told you those things in confidence."

Fr. Jorge spoke in a gentle tone. "Danny… "

Whatever reassuring thing Fr. Jorge was going to say, Danny didn't let him say it. His headache stepped up another notch, and the floodgates holding back his temper snapped. "That's what a secret is, padre. Something you confide in someone else. Something you trust them with. Any of that sound familiar?"

His gaze upon Danny remained, never wavering. "I have broken no confidence with you, Danny. Not now, not ever. You know this."

For a few moments the rage was so complete that Danny found himself buried inside of it. "I told you those things to get them off my chest – NOT so you could throw them back in my face whenever it works for one of your sermons."

"This isn't a sermon-"

"It's not? Then what is it?" Danny barked a condescending laugh. "What – are you trying to live out some fantasy of some type of father/son heart-to-heart?"

Fr. Jorge stared forward. "You can use hurtful words, Danny, but I won't let this go."

Danny wouldn't hear it. He used the same voice he had in countless situations at his job, a voice portraying complete control over a situation. "I've got news for you. You're gonna have to let it go, because we're done talking about this." Danny got up from the couch and headed for the door.

Fr. Jorge didn't budge. "You can run from this, Danny, but running away won't solve your problems. It won't bring Jordan or Jason any closer to where you are."

At their names, Danny's anger swelled, and he swerved around. His voice boomed in the priest's face. "¡Cómo atrévasele los trae en esto!"

Fr. Jorge's tone stayed the same. "Yo los traigo en esto salvar su alma."

"You bring them into this for my soul? Does it look like I'm worried about my soul right now, padre?" he shouted. Danny pointed at his own face. "Look at me."

Fr. Jorge did as Danny requested.

Rage widened his eyes. "Do I look like I give a fuck about what my family did to me? Do you think I give a fuck about what _you _think about me?" One half of his mind felt disconnected from the other half. In the wake of that, he felt like he'd lost his sanity, and he was sure Fr. Jorge could see in it in his face. "Do I look like that's what I care about right now?"

"You look like you have been to hell, Danny. Today it is at its worst, but there have been other days … where Jordan and Jason have been safe … that you have looked this way, too."

"Why are you doing this?" Danny demanded. His voice escalated. "Are you enjoying this?"

Fr. Jorge flinched at his shouting and at the accusation. "I'm not stone, hijo. If you keep shouting this way, I will shout back." It was no threat. Fr. Jorge only sounded sad and disappointed. "We will fight, and that will help nothing."

"You weren't looking for a fight?" Danny glared at him. "You bring up my parents and my brother, and you're telling me that you _weren't _looking for a fight?"

"I don't want to fight you."

"Then, what do you want, padre?" Danny opened his arms. "Huh? Tell me what you want."

"I want what I've wanted for a long time, hijo." Fr. Jorge looked up to see rage chained in Danny's eyes. "Many times now we have been in this room. You've shared your secrets, and I give them up to God." Fr. Jorge did not try to quell the passion in his voice. He let it take him over, let it fill his words. "I let go of your secrets, and Dios in his glory makes me whole. He forgives you, Danny. He forgives you for your every sin, even the ones you don't mention, even the ones you don't know yourself. That's what confession is, Danny. It's forgiveness. God's love is so complete that it forgets our wrongs."

Danny knew all these things from Catholic Catechism. He let the priest keep speaking only because he still had not answered his question.

"But you, hijo," Fr. Jorge continued, "you cannot forget. You cannot forget what your parents have done to you. You cannot forget what your brother has done to himself. They would not let you save them, and for that – you will not forgive them. No matter how many times you come into this room and go through these doors, you walk out of this room bearing the same memories and the same sins that brought you here." Fr. Jorge focused his gaze on Danny. "God forgives you, Danny. He has always forgiven you. But you won't forgive yourself."

(x)

Upon hearing the point Fr. Jorge had been so desperately trying to make, Danny grew silent and his lips ran dry. Danny had a natural talent for sarcasm. Most of his life, he'd been able to come up with a quick and snappy retort for almost any situation. Now, here in this room, as Fr. Jorge showed him the pure, bare bones of the truth, Danny's mouth gapped open. He could find no comeback, not even a weak one, so he closed it again.

Danny stood there, useless, and certain that he must look entirely stupid. Thoughts belted his mind, one swift punch after another, leaving him dizzy and reeling from the impact. He became so lost in them, so tangled up in the confusion, that he pushed them out of his mind all together. He forced himself to think, forced himself to rely on what logic had guided him before. He closed his eyes and waited for some coherent thought to find him. Eventually, a grain began. They were familiar thoughts, thoughts he'd had before.

Danny didn't believe that people – even those who tried to be honest with themselves – knew when some things were over. He saw it all the time – in Martin, in Jack and Sam, in Vivian, and in 99 percent of those they tried to help. People mostly just went on believing, even when neon flashing signs a hundred feet high told them otherwise. If it was something you really cared about, something you thought you needed, it was easy to cheat. It was easy to tell yourself lies and confuse your life with TV – if it meant you could believe that whatever felt so wrong could eventually turn out right in the end.

Sometimes the truth crashed through. Other times, it dropped down like a nuclear bomb, dissipating every lie and misperception around it for miles.

Danny Taylor experienced that ground zero now. When Fr. Jorge spelled it out for him, so simply that a kindergartener could have understood, he knew that he couldn't keep fooling himself, not after hearing the truth.

He didn't forgive himself. Not for his parents' deaths, not for the way he treated Rafael. He didn't forgive himself for not being able to find Jason in the warehouse, or for not being able to stop Jordan from becoming a drug mule and a prison escapee. Forgiving himself would mean he wasn't wrong; forgiving himself would mean that there was nothing else he could have done.

Forgiving himself would mean that it was over.

Fr. Jorge said something, but he sounded muted, like he was speaking from somewhere far away. "You have to forgive yourself, Danny," he said. "It's the only way that you can move on."

Danny finally raised his head. Color ebbed away from his face. "I don't want to move on," he raked out. His eyes wet with tears. "I just want them back."

For the first time since they began talking, Fr. Jorge stood up and stepped closed to Danny. "Hijo?"

The idea stayed front and center. He could lose Jordan and Jason, just like he lost his parents and Rafael, and if it happened, he would not be okay.

In the past twenty hours, there had been many points where Danny had thought he was going to burst into tears. But every time, it passed. This time it did not. Danny's shoulders hunched forward. He felt Fr. Jorge take him by the shoulder and lead him to the couch. The moment Danny sat down, it happened. Sobs racked his whole body.

Fr. Jorge kept a hand on his shoulder. "El grito, el niño. Estará bien…"

Danny cried strangled tears, tears he had needed to cry for a long time, and he feared – as he had before – that he would not stop.


	54. Backtrack

Thanks for the reviews! I've loved all the time I've had to write. Just to prepare you guys, I go back to school the end of August, and then updates will be snail-paced as usual. Thanks to rozzy, Loopey-Laura, anmodo, and Mariel!

(x)

After her confrontation with Vivian, Sam needed her space. For all her virtues, she did not like being disputed, and she liked it even less when she found herself outgunned and out of verbal ammunition.

She got up from the worktable and went to make herself a cup of coffee in the break room. After setting the coffee grounds, water, and filter into place in the coffeemaker, she leaned back against the counter with a worn out sigh. Samantha massaged her temples and listened to the calm, constant sputtering and gurgling of the coffeemaker.

She hadn't meant for the discussion between her and Viv to become so goddamned territorial, but once they got started, she couldn't back down. It wasn't in Samantha's nature to leave well enough alone, and today with their tempers running thin and their patience running thinner, now seemed as good as any other to have it out with anyone – even Viv.

Samantha ruminated over the conversation, sorting through it like one might a cluttered closet or desk drawer. It had started with Martin. Martin broke protocol. Even worse, he did so after the factory, when Danny demanded they let him "talk" to Layman. Samantha huffed a laugh. Yeah, _talk_. Because they all knew that's what Danny did with uncooperative suspects. There was much a chance of that happening as there was for the Empire State Building to turn into a Pretzel Stand overnight.

_Now, _that _was_ _an odd comparison._ Had Jack said that once? Yes, he probably had. She could almost hear his sarcastic drawl laced into the analogy.

And just like that, here Jack was again, center stage in her thoughts no matter what else she tried to think about. Sometimes Samantha saw him as a corrosive acid, burning through whatever solid foundation of thoughts she put into place. She frowned and grasped the skin between her eyes, as if trying to ward off a migraine. No, Jack was a mess of knots that she had neither the time nor the desire to untangle, not right now anyway. What she should be thinking about was Danny. Danny and his connection to those kids. That had started their argument, hadn't it?

She remembered leafing through the pages with Danny's cell phone number inner dispersed throughout the copies. Seeing his name written next to those numbers stirred a mix of emotions within her. She'd been startled, confused, angry, but mostly disappointed. Not because of Danny's actions. She'd worked her job long enough to understand what drives people to want to change the lives of those around them. Sam personally experienced it all the time, especially with cases that hit close to home. Danny made some mistakes, but it wasn't that.

Over the years, she and Danny had become close friends. Their relationship had started out with mutual respect and grown into a unique friendship born of affection rather than attraction. That kind of relationship was rare for Samantha, and that made her appreciate it all the more.

However, the more their team worked this case, the more she realized that she knew more about some strangers than she did about Danny Taylor. For months, Danny had been in over his head with Jordan Coliandri, and not once had she noticed that anything was wrong – not until last night at the bar. She hadn't noticed, and Danny hadn't said a word about it.

If they were so close, why hadn't he come to her? Why hadn't he _trusted_ her?

But then again, it was probably like Vivian had said. Whatever had happened in his life was too complicated for him to talk about with them, or with anyone, no matter how close they were. His only outlet was his work and the volunteering he did at St. Luke's orphanage. He'd chosen that over telling anyone about his problems, even over her.

Samantha could understand, but it hurt all the same. Throw in that, Martin's vigilante justice, and Jack's gunshot wound, and it wasn't difficult to see why she lashed out at Vivian. In a way, their argument now seemed only appropriate.

With Vivian's words still fresh on her mind, Samantha arched her neck to look out of the break room and back into the office. Vivian was still there, working as constantly and methodically as she had been all day.

Turning back to the coffeemaker, Samantha made a decision and poured two cups of coffee. She put two sugars and a creamer in one and half a creamer in the other. Taking a deep breath, she walked into the office and set one of the coffee cups down on Vivian's desk.

Vivian looked at the cup and then up at Samantha. "Two sugars and cream?"

"As you like it."

Vivian took the coffee. "Thank you."

Samantha took a seat close to her and sipped her coffee. After a long moment, she said, "I get a little worked up. I guess it really is like Martin said. This case _is _personal."

Vivian's shoulders relaxed. She exhaled, as if letting her animosity towards Sam steam out of her body. "It's alright, Sam. It's been a difficult day for all of us. I don't think any of us knew how to handle it."

She smiled wearily. "I don't know. Compared to the rest of us, you look like the poster child for keeping professional boundaries."

Vivian smiled wryly. "I wouldn't be too sure of that. I mean, I'm here, aren't I? Reggie goes to bed without a good-night kiss and my husband sleeps alone tonight."

"Yeah, well…" Samantha loomed her eyes around the office, as she had on so many occasions before. "Even if it wasn't for Danny, I'd probably be here this late anyway."

"Don't tell my husband this, but I probably would, too," she admitted.

Samantha sighed. She quietly stared down into her cup. "I'm just worried about Danny, Viv." She arched her neck back up. "I just hope he's okay."

Vivian pointed to her computer screen. "If we find something, he might be."

As Vivian turned towards the computer, she couldn't see a proud smile ease its way onto Samantha's face. Danny, Martin, and Sam all complained about being stuck behind a pile of paperwork when it was their turn. Though she must have felt the same frustration, Vivian bore it with the grace of a queen.

"I've been thinking," Sam said, "about those numbers. I mean, we searched all day. There is not one common thread amongst them."

Vivian made a noise as if to say 'no kidding.'

"I think we need to branch out. Jordan didn't have a cell phone, and if she needed to make a call to Bryce Layman, she wouldn't have used the phones at the convent, Northeast Detention, _or _the payphone on Birch Street. She'd be too smart for that."

"You think we need to look into other blocks around the city, maybe ones close to the convent, close to the subway, close to the factory…"

Samantha begrudgingly smiled. "You already..."

"Made the call," Vivian answered, sharing her smile. "I got on the phone a few minutes ago and got in touch with Verizon for pay phone read-outs around the 10 block radius around St. Luke's section of the Bronx. After a good look at the phone numbers, I got to thinking the same things you were."

"Did they give you a time frame?"

"Within the hour."

"You're good, Viv."

"They don't pay me the big bucks for nothing."

Samantha got up from her seat. "I think it's time we took the map of the South Bronx out for another look."

Vivian turned away from her screen. "Good idea. If she was running drugs around the city, something tells me she might have had other places to be besides church in the morning."


	55. No Thought of Return

Thanks to rozzy, Mariel, anmodo, and Hayley (welcome!) for the reviews. Here's another chapter at your request. ;D

Hayley: I think I'm mostly done with the Spanish. Sorry if it was confusing. "Cómo atrévasele los trae en esto!" translates roughly into "How dare you bring them into this!" The words "Yo los traigo en esto salvar su alma" mean "I bring them into this for your soul." Hope that clears things up!

(x)

Danny cried for what felt like an eternity. The tears flowed in torrents from his eyes down into his outstretched hands. He had hoped the tears were over, at least for awhile, but here they were. That's what tears did, Danny had decided. They hid in violent emotions like anger and resentment. Like the best enemies, they were patient. They waited until the opportune moment (in this case, until he was alone with Fr. Jorge in confession) to strike.

Before Danny knew what was happening, sorrow snared him by the foot and yanked him under, leaving him struggling to pull up to the surface. The sorrow did not drown him, not as he feared it would, but the ordeal left him exhausted.

When the tears stopped, Danny found himself drained of energy. He stayed as he had for the past twenty minutes, hunched over like someone who feels faint, with his head in between his knees. His hands, filled with warm wetness, covered his face.

He didn't want to lift his head up. He didn't want to face anyone, not even Fr. Jorge, not even after breaking down in front of him. He felt lost in something of a daydream, his mind like a movie camera that couldn't stay in focus. For a long moment, he didn't say anything. He didn't feel _capable _of saying anything. Fr. Jorge didn't say anything either. He granted Danny time to pull to the surface, time to come to grips with whatever the hell had happened.

In the quiet after his breakdown, Danny found something he hadn't expected. The best thing – perhaps the only good thing in Danny's opinion – about crying his eyes out was the feeling of relief. The feeling that he'd plunged as low as he could plunge and hit rock bottom. He didn't worry that he would lose everything sacred and important to him, because he'd already lost it. He was no longer scared of what tomorrow might bring, because today had brought it. His other problems – Rafael, Bryce Layman, his drinking, his anger – now all seemed like unimportant figures in an unimportant landscape. In a sense they had ceased to be problems at all.

In lethargic movements, Danny sat up on the couch. As if understanding instinctually that Danny needed his space, Fr. Jorge got up and picked up Danny's mug of tea, which by now had gone cold. Fr. Jorge returned shortly from the kitchen with a fresh cup, steam visibly curling up from the mug. He set the tea down next to Danny and sat back down in his recliner.

Danny remained quiet for a long time. He couldn't tell how long. Somewhere between blowing up at Fr. Jorge and finding himself hunched over on the couch, he'd lost touch with things as concrete as minutes and seconds. Though Danny had only been in confession a grand total of forty-five minutes, he felt as though he aged fifteen years.

When Danny did begin to talk, his voice sounded hoarse and flat and strange. It didn't sound like his own voice at all. It was like listening to himself on tape for the first time.

"This morning when I read the headlines, I thought I was going to lose it. I saw Jordan, Jason, and Rachel's names. I read what happened to them, and I thought – this is it. I'm done. They'll find me on the floor. They'll suit me up in a straight jacket, and I'll be fresh meat for the loony bin." Danny laughed sadly, as he was fresh out of tears.

"Then it passed." He shrugged as if to say 'imagine that'. "It was gone. I was thinking clearly and I was holding up my end of the conversation over the phone. I sounded so confident, so sure of myself … that I started to believe it."

Fr. Jorge propped his elbows on the armrests. He leaned his chin against his folded hands. "You did not cry, eh?"

"No way. Not even when I was alone in my apartment. It didn't even occur to me as an option. I just put on my suit, picked up my briefcase, and went to work. Like it was just another day. I remember thinking – after all these years, I've done it. I beat the system. I don't have to worry about losing it any more. If this can't even get to me… then what can? Nothing. I'm invincible."

Fr. Jorge looked at him knowingly.

Danny shook his head and continued. "After that, I had myself convinced that I would find them by early morning, afternoon at the latest. After all, it made sense, right? I was focused. I had the motivation. I'd earned their trust, so it would only be a matter of time before I had them home."

"You needed to believe it," Fr. Jorge said.

Danny brushed away remnants of tears from his eyes. "I did believe it, but it wasn't true. I lost it this morning the minute I read the headlines. I just took me until now to figure it out."

Fr. Jorge sighed in a thoughtful way. "They say the mind has a way of protecting its body. A defense mechanism for when the body is at its weakest. If you had broken down right then, maybe you and the straight jacket would not be so far apart."

Danny made a derogatory noise. "Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea. Maybe I belonged in one."

"Dios prohibe." Fr. Jorge waved his hand, as if to deflect his words. "Do not say such things."

Danny didn't become excited when he spoke. He spoke the words as if they were a common truth. "It would have kept me out of the office. I was a danger to my team today. Just by being there, I compromised the investigation. They tried to warn me, but…I didn't listen."

Fr. Jorge squinted as Danny. Then he said, "If they wanted you to leave, do you think they would have found a way to get you out?"

It was an interesting point. Danny considered it. Knowing Jack… "Yeah. They probably would have."

"They kept you around for good reason." Fr. Jorge tapped his own temple for emphasis. "For what you have up here. And because you know Jordan and Jason better than anyone else in this orphanage."

Danny's eyes stared at the ground, before he whispered, "Yeah. At least, I thought I did."

Fr. Jorge leaned forward. He asked his question carefully. "But you didn't?"

Danny patted his lips. "I didn't know she was running drugs." The moment he spoke the words, Danny's face scrunched. He held his head in his hand before running it down his face. "Or maybe I did," he softly corrected. "Maybe I did, and I just didn't want it to be true…"

"I did not want to believe it myself. Neither did Rachel," he said. "Do you think that means we love them any less?" Danny sighed a frustrated sigh, and Fr. Jorge then added, "We have only known Jordan and Jason a matter of years, and even then only what they will tell us. We were not called to be parents, but we tried to be anyway. We can fault ourselves for many things, hijo. But not knowing the details of their pasts? We cannot fault ourselves for that."

Danny knew Fr. Jorge was right, as he so often tended to be. Even the best of parents did not know everything about their children once they hit thirteen or so. But Danny thought that he knew most things about Jordan, and what he didn't know, he assumed he could find out.

"Guess I'm finding out about it now," he murmured, more to himself than to Fr. Jorge.

When they became quiet, Danny picked up the cup of tea. It was cold again, but he drank it anyway. He only had a few sips before he said, "I feel a connection to a lot of kids in this orphanage. I don't know exactly what they're all going through, but I know what it's like to be lonely. To feel like you're on your own… I think a lot of them respond to that."

Danny stared down into the mug, like he might find the answers to all his problems somewhere in the bottom if only he looked hard enough. "But with Jordan and Jason, from the moment I met them, I knew it was different. I saw what they went through. Their father dying from that stupid fuckin' overdose. Their mother ditching them … I saw it all. I felt like I had this in depth look at their lives that no one else got to see."

Fr. Jorge listened intently to every word Danny had to say. He never interrupted. He seemed to want Danny to keep going. For once, he got his wish. Danny kept talking. "Because I saw that, I also saw where they were headed. It was like this never-ending list of possibilities. Drugs, prostitution, jail, homelessness, STDs, pregnancies…you name it – they had a tendency for it, just for being born to two fucked-up parents."

Somewhere in the back of Danny's mind, he wondered what was responsible for loosening his tongue. He couldn't remember the last time he had volunteered this much information about himself. Maybe it was something in the tea. Maybe it was the privacy of their conversation. Whatever it was, he doubted he could have stopped if he tried. "But there were other possibilities, too – better ones. I could see them graduating from high school, graduating from college. Learning to make it on their own. I thought – all they really need is a positive influence in their lives. All they need is a role model, and it can happen.

"So, I set them up with Sr. Rachel at the orphanage. I started coming by once a week, then twice a week. Before I knew it, I couldn't get away from the place. It was like I was drawn here by a very powerful magnet, you know?" Danny shook his head as Fr. Jorge chuckled at the imagery. "Every time I turned around, I was in here."

Danny grew more serious; his initial frown worked its way back onto his face. "And I saw how angry they were," he said. "Even Jason sometimes. Most people don't understand why kids get angry like that. Why they act out, try to hurt the people trying to help them.

"I did though," he whispered. Danny's eyebrows pent together as images and memories flashed behind his eyes. "When I was little, I remember being so afraid. So I got angry. When I was angry, I learned that I could be in control. I could decide what –I- was going to feel. When you're afraid, you don't get choices. But when _you're _the one who's angry, someone else has to be afraid. Someone else has to worry about what _you're _going to do next."

Danny paused. It was the longest speech he had given in years. "I never wanted anyone else to have to make that choice. I never wanted Jordan or Jason to _ever _have to make that choice."

Danny focused forward. He stared at nothing in particular, but his eyes were alive, incited with intensity. "Someone should have told them every day from the moment they were born, that they were good and that they were special and that someone loved them." The corners of his lips pulled down. "I remember thinking – I've never been that to anyone, and no one's ever been that to me. But maybe I could be that for them."

Danny blinked. He focused solely on Fr. Jorge now. "That's why I decided to bring them here. I thought they would get something different. I thought this might give them a second chance."

Danny raised his eyebrows cynically, before setting the mug of tea back on the coffee table. "Ain't it funny?" he said. "Surprise. They wound up missing anyway."

Fr. Jorge looked for a moment like someone had reached inside his chest and twisted his heart.

Danny saw it. "I'm sorry, Father," he said, shaking his head. "I just feel like every effort's been in vain." His voice grew in volume. "I just feel like they're being punished, and I can't for the life of me figure out for what."

At this point, Fr. Jorge was done with silence. "Again you think He is punishing them? You are always preoccupied with this idea."

Danny frowned. "Yeah? Well, what else would you call this? Bestowing His grace upon them? Last time I checked it looked a little different than this in Abraham's day."

"He does not want them to be in pain, hijo," Fr. Jorge swore softly. "You must believe that."

"Then why's He doing this? Huh? Where is He when his children need him most?"

Fr. Jorge breathed a difficult sigh. "You have asked me that before. My answer remains this same."

"He is everywhere? Alright, if He's everywhere, why doesn't He show himself? If He really loves them, then where is He?"

Fr. Jorge took time to think before giving his answer. "Dios shows himself in many ways, Danny. He was with you in that church. He is with us now, and He is with Jordan and Jason wherever they are. Even if you cannot be."

Danny looked away, frustrated by the lack of answers, and even more by the lack of blame Fr. Jorge placed upon God. When Danny turned away, Fr. Jorge took his turn to speak. "Dios has given them something else. He gave them you. By that, He shows His love for them."

Reluctantly, Danny faced him.

"You care for others first, Danny," Fr. Jorge said. "With that, you have helped return countless children to their families. You have helped build this church into what it is today. You have used your gift."

Fr. Jorge grasped Danny's shoulder as he spoke. "God is not blind. He will guide you, hijo. No matter what happens."

As Danny stared into the priest's eyes, he wondered – and not for the first time – what great force gave Fr. Jorge his faith. Danny couldn't remember the last time he felt faith like that – truly felt it. He imagined that he must have been very young. Now, Fr. Jorge at twice his age embodied a faith Danny could not remember seeing in anyone else. It was so strong that it reached him now, when nothing else could. He stared into the priest's eyes in awe, and once again found himself speechless.

Fr. Jorge smiled knowingly, as if somehow for a moment, he read Danny's thoughts as effortlessly as his own. "Someday," he whispered. "Someday, hijo. If you want it badly enough, you will know."

Danny found the interaction haunting, unnerving, and breath-taking all in the same instant. It didn't heal his pain. It didn't erase the terrible events of the day. Fr. Jorge had many things, but he did not have that.

Nonetheless, Danny knew Fr. Jorge had given him all the comfort he had to give, and that he gave with no thought of receiving anything in return.

It wasn't enough, but for Danny, it didn't have to be.

Danny closed his eyes. It was difficult not to cry. "Thank you, padre."

"De nada, hijo." Fr. Jorge squeezed his shoulder. "De nada."


	56. A Welcome Presence

Mariel, anmodo, and Loozy: Thanks for the reviews! Your feedback inspires me to continue with haste. Let's hope I can keep it up until this story is complete!

(x)

Shortly after their talk ended, Fr. Jorge gave the closing rights of confession, and he and Danny left the rectory. Once in the hallway, Fr. Jorge locked the door behind them again. Danny noticed for the first time that he'd never seen Fr. Jorge so preoccupied with church security. But then again with Jason's kidnapping taking place just across the hall, Fr. Jorge probably had the right idea.

Fr. Jorge must have noticed Danny noticing because he said, "We changed the security codes as soon as Rachel was found. Rachel started locking doors as well, especially in the children's wing. With all that's happened we cannot afford to be careless."

Danny nodded, agreeing with the sentiment. "I'll stay here tonight," he said suddenly. "This way if we get any more late-night visitors, I'll be here."

"Are you sure you will not be needed at your office?"

"No," he decided. "Even with everything that happened at the precinct, they'll call me if they find …" Danny paused. He changed his wording. "If they find anything."

They continued slowly down the hallway. "You will be a welcome presence, especially to the children," Fr. Jorge said. "Having an FBI agent nearby should help them sleep better." Fr. Jorge chuckled a little and slapped Danny on the back. "Dios Mio, it will help _me _sleep better."

"At least one of us will be sleeping."

"I will try. You should try to rest as well." Fr. Jorge gave his advice more for posterity than for any desired effect, as if he already knew Danny would not head it. "You need to keep your strength."

Danny shook his head. Though he didn't say anything, his meaning was clear. Not tonight. Not even if he tried.

Fr. Jorge understood, though he did not approve. "Are you tired?"

"Exhausted," Danny answered, rubbing the skin near his eye. "It's because of the drugs you put in my tea."

Fr. Jorge chuckled. "You never know. It did come from Cuba."

Danny smirked. "I'll send it to the lab to be tested before you use it on the next poor soul who goes into confession."

"They will find hallucinogens, eh?"

"Yeah, or a very powerful truth serum."

"Whatever was in my tea," Fr. Jorge said, "you should drink it more often."

Danny thought about that. He imagined never being able to stop himself from delivering long, drawn-out monologues about his youth and his purpose in life. "No way, never, not for all the coffee beans in Columbia."

Fr. Jorge let out a laugh that could have been heard three rooms down. Danny managed a smile. He heard the sound often, and still he never tired from it. "If only, hijo. If only." Fr. Jorge stopped in his tracks as he found himself by the doors of the church. He looked in at the empty pews. By now, the candle had gone out, leaving the church in utter darkness. "All right, hijo. Confession is good for mi alma. So is prayer." His voice softened. "I will be inside the church if anything should happen."

"Give Him a talking to for me, would you? He doesn't seem to want to listen to me tonight."

"I will pray for you," Fr. Jorge said. "And for Jordan and Jason's safe return."

Danny reached out, and Fr. Jorge returned his embrace. Danny held on tightly, thinking _if I could have chosen my father, I'd have chosen him._ The moment's emotion engulfed him again, but this time Danny was able to ward it away before it held him hostage a second time. He took in a deep breath and let his arms go slack.

At the same time, footsteps shuffled behind them. Danny turned, and in the faint light, he caught a glimpse of Sr. Rachel walking down the hallway opposite theirs.

Danny blinked and looked to Fr. Jorge. Though the priest's dark eyes gave away nothing, Danny had a clear idea of what was on his mind. Fr. Jorge rested a hand on Danny's shoulder. "We are all going through hard times, hijo. You are overwhelmed by what has happened, and you may think this is difficult for others to understand." His eyes met Danny's. "But that does not mean that you should go through this alone."

Danny's eyes followed where Sr. Rachel had disappeared around the corner. "You may be right, padre," he whispered.

Danny started after Rachel, when Fr. Jorge called to him. "And, Danny."

He looked up.

A hint of a smile touched Fr. Jorge's features. "Wash up, eh?"

Danny rolled his eyes. "Go pray, padre."

Fr. Jorge's smile widened, and Danny watched him go inside the church. Though Danny turned his back to the priest, he stopped and thought about what Fr. Jorge had said. Danny looked down at his dirty, wrinkled suit and tie and his smudged black shoes. Experimentally, he lifted up his arm and put his nose in his armpit. The stench sent him reeling backwards.

"Ugh." He coughed into his fist. "Christ. Ugh, that's awful…"

Danny turned back down the hallway the way he came and headed for the nearest shower stall.

(x)

Back at the offices of the FBI's Missing Person's Unit, Vivian Johnson's phone rang loudly at her desk. She glanced at the digital clock in the right corner on her computer screen. It was five minutes to the hour. She lifted the receiver, an anxious hilt to her voice, "Agent Johnson." At the confirmation on the other end, hope streamed through her body. "Yes…. Fantastic. Yes, you can send them right over."

Samantha arched her neck to look at Vivian.

"And you got all of them? …" Vivian expelled a relieved sigh. "Yes, thank you. We appreciate it. Yes, thank you… We will. All right. Thanks, Jimmy. Take care."

Samantha's chest lifted with anticipation as Vivian set the phone down. "We got them?" she asked.

"Every block from the South Bronx to the subway," Vivian confirmed. "And not only that."

"There's more?"

Vivian smiled proudly. "The company ran them with the numbers I sent from Northeast Detention, St. Luke's orphanage, and the other pay phone. It seemed our girl wasn't as smart as we thought."

Samantha's breath caught in her throat. In her mind an image gripped her, of the sea of dead-ends parting wide to birth a clue to Jordan and Jason's whereabouts. At the same moment, the fax machine across from Vivian noisily whirled to life. "They have a list of three numbers," Vivian informed her. "Two numbers from St. Luke's matched up with those across a series of payphones, and they have a third number from Northeast Detention. It seems _someone _made a phone call out of the detention center the morning before she went missing. Amazingly, someone has also been dialing that same number frequently throughout her area of the South Bronx during the last two months."

"That is quite an amazing coincidence."

"Isn't it though?"

Samantha quickly marched to the fax machine and snatched up the papers. "Okay. We have the phone numbers. Let's put them in the system."

Vivian brought up the computer program she had used throughout the day to search the numbers from the previous print-outs. The program hadn't helped much, especially since they'd had no real way of connecting Jordan Coliandri to any one phone call. However, now it proved its weight in gold.

"The age of information is a scary thing when you're not on the right side of it," Vivian murmured to herself.

"Okay," Samantha said. "The first one is from St. Luke's." Samantha read off the first number, and Vivian entered it into the system.

Within a matter of seconds, the computer beeped, and the all-too-familiar mug-shot of Bryce Layman graced their screen. Though they weren't looking at each other, Samantha and Vivian smirked in time. "There's a surprise," Samantha commented.

"Yeah. Tell me about it," Vivian added.

Samantha looked back down at the paper. She pursed her lips. "All right. The next number from St. Luke's we know. It's Danny's cell phone."

Vivian frowned at the fact, but did not dwell on it. "What about the last one?"

Samantha squinted at the number. "Area code, two-one-two. Eight-nine-five, thirty-seven, eighteen." Then she added, "That's a Manhattan area code."

No sooner had she spoken the words than an address inside the city flashed onto the monitor, followed by a name and a mug-shot.

"Chris Grierson," Vivian announced. "Twenty-years-old. Parents deceased. Did a six-month stint in minimum security for possession of marijuana." Vivian raised her eyebrows. "He served a sentence before that in juvenile detention."

"Sounds like her type."

"They certainly have a lot in common," Vivian stared back down at the phone records. "They were on the phone for forty-five minutes at Northeast Detention. It makes me wonder what exactly they were talking about."

"The best way to lift a roof off a building perhaps?" Samantha sat down at her computer and began typing away furiously at the keys. She searched through databases and monitoring devices to which only the FBI, CIA, and other secret service agencies had access. She reported any information she had on Chris Grierson as soon as she found it. "He doesn't have a car registered, at least not under this name. Any aliases?"

Vivian looked back at her screen. "None reported."

"Yeah, there's no aliases listed on his driving record. No past residences either." Samantha looked into another database. Vivian had coined it. It was scary how quickly the government could pull up files on your credit cards, speeding tickets, grocery lists, where you'd spent the night every night in the past twenty years, and sometimes what you'd had for breakfast the morning before, all before you could say "breach of privacy".

Samantha reported her findings, or rather her lack thereof. "He had a Visa/Mastercard, but it's been cancelled for the past three months. He has a debit card with Bank of America, but the bank account's been empty since September."

Vivian frowned. "What's Mr. Grierson been doing for the past three months? Hiding under a rock?"

Samantha got up from her chair. "I think it's time we asked Mr. Grierson that ourselves."

Vivian moved with only a hint of stiffness after spending most of her day secured behind her desk. "Let's hope he has as much to say to us as he did to Jordan."

"If he hasn't taken her out of the country." In one fluid motion, Samantha grabbed her coat and flipped open her cell phone. "Jack. It's me. Yeah. We got something…"


	57. Damage Control

Special thanks to anmodo, Mariel, Lillyanna, and politik! Lillyanna, I'm tryin' doll! And I understand, sometimes I forget what's happening myself and have to backtrack. lol Here's to writing chapters more quickly than in past posts!

(x)

Inside the downtown precinct, Jack Malone picked up his cell phone. "What've you got?"

"Chris Grierson," Samantha answered. "A twenty-year-old male that lives inside Manhattan."

"How's this guy connected?"

"Jordan made a call out of Northeast Detention to Chris Grierson's cell phone, only hours before she went missing. We bet she's been calling that number frequently, as the same number has been dialed from every pay phone in a two block radius of St. Luke's orphanage."

"The boyfriend," Jack coined.

"Yeah, looks like he's not a phantom any more." Samantha's voice lowered cynically. "Even though his credit cards have all been cancelled and there's no record of him in the DMV before 2004."

"Does he have any aliases?"

"We looked. No hits, though."

"What about his background?"

"He served time in minimum security and before that he spent his teenage years in and out of juvy."

"I'm shocked," Jack said, patting his lips. As Samantha spoke, he played out the scenario in his mind. "So Jordan calls her boyfriend, and they figure out an escape plan." Jack imagined Jordan Coliandri, dark hair hiding her face, hunched over, whispering into the telephone. "They agree to meet at the payphone on Birch Street, and from there…"

"He picks her up, and they could be halfway to Canada or Mexico."

"Nah, it doesn't fit," Jack ruled out. " I say she doesn't go anywhere without her brother, not after all the trouble she had Danny and Sr. Rachel go to for them to be together."

"You think something went wrong."

"That's exactly what I think," Jack said. "But we won't know until we find this Grierson guy. Got an address?"

"He lives in above _Ray's Liquors and Spirits_ in West Manhattan. Viv and I are headed there now."

"Did you call for back-up?"

Samantha paused before saying, "No. We don't want to jump the gun and scare him off. He's got a history, and he doesn't exactly live in the Hilton on High Street. But it's nothing Viv and I can't handle."

Jack didn't doubt it, but that didn't quell that little voice in his head, the one that so often caused him to worry about Samantha and Vivian's safety. "Alright, trust your instincts. If it gets ugly-"

"We'll get out of there."

"And if you run into trouble-"

"We'll call for back up."

Jack tried not to smirk and failed. How well I know her, he thought. Every move, every lift and drop of her voice, every turn of phrase. And how well she must know me. "Is Viv driving?"

"She is."

"Alright, let her know she's a lifesaver. You both did excellent work today."

"We're gorgeous and lethal. I guess now we get to add 'unusually meticulous' to our list of talents."

Jack didn't argue. "You two make a good team."

"If we get one more, we could go on the road."

"Give Charlie's Angels a run for their money?"

Samantha's blonde hair blew back from her face as she stared out of the open window. Vivian couldn't hear her when she said, "Not worth it. I wouldn't want to ruin the chemistry we've got together."

Jack looked over at Frank, who was on the phone himself, and said, "I wouldn't either."

The butterflies returned. Samantha and Jack had spoken in veiled comments and hidden innuendo during business hours for years now. You would have thought any effect would have weakened by now. For Samantha, it hadn't. "Are you at the office?" she asked.

Jack looked back. Frank was off the phone now with his hands in his pockets, waiting. "No. I'm at NYPD. I've still got work to do."

"Okay, we'll keep in touch."

"Got it." Jack's cell phone shut with crisp neatness. He cleared his throat and sat back down across from Detective Frank Sanders – all business. He stared at the papers on Frank's desk. "You think we can make this work?"

Frank sighed against his teeth before saying, "We'll find out."

(x)

Once he left Fr. Jorge, Danny walked down the hallway with his hands stuffed in his pockets. It felt wrong to be so sluggish and so tired when so much remained at stake, but it was how he felt, guilt be damned.

Instead of dwelling upon the matter, he tried to let the church's quiet work through his skin and calm him down, as it had done before. He took in a deep breath and smelled history. He smelled tradition. Though Danny couldn't identify all of the various scents that entered through his nostrils, he placed it, sure as a familiar cologne or aftershave. He had grown up in orphanages, and most of the time, a church had been nearby.

How sad was it that walking through a quiet church brought him more nostalgia and peace than a picture of his own family? Danny thought of his parents' faces and recalled them carefully to a mind which was trained to recall names and faces. Not a day passed when he did not think of them. Sometimes he felt anger. Sometimes he felt joy. Mostly, it was sadness.

Danny suspected there always would be a gap in his life where his parents were supposed to be, but weren't. It was only to be expected, but knowing that did little to lessen the pain.

Maybe that was why he had always been so protective of Jordan and Jason. Though Danny certainly had no children of his own, he imagined it was the closest thing he could connect to a parent's protective instinct for a child. If he was capable of such a small representation of the feeling, why had Jordan and Jason's own mother not been?

It was questions like that that Danny physically shook from his mind. Even if he could somehow find the answer, he doubted any benefit could be taken from it.

Danny found the spare room in the rectory with little difficulty. Luckily, the room was unlocked, although Fr. Jorge could have planned that part. Danny flicked on an overhead light, shrugged out of his suit jacket, and made his way to the adjoining bathroom. Danny spent most of his day in the dirtiest, foulest places in New York City. Only when he stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom did he see the proof for himself. He was in desperate need of a shower, a shave, and a nap. And he looked it.

Dirt, dust, grime, and traces of Bryce Layman's blood smeared and streaked his skin and clothes.

For a man so used to having fine clothes and wearing them well, it was strange to see himself standing in an outfit better suited for a homeless man or a sewage worker.

Making a face, Danny shed his clothes and climbed into the shower. He turned the water on the faucet as far to the red line as it would go and flicked on the showerhead. He pushed thoughts from his mind and tried to let the clean water work its magic. The next twenty minutes were heaven.

When he returned from the bathroom, Danny looked upon the spare room. He had spent nights there before, some when he was done a late night talk with Jordan or Rachel, others when he was just too tired to make the drive to Brooklyn.

He could have analyzed the thought. He bet it had a lot to say, but he didn't want to do that right now.

Right now, he wanted to see Rachel.

He changed into a clean set of clothes and went to find her.


	58. Over Dinner

Mariel & Rozzy: Thanks, guys! I'm glad that last chapter kept you satisfied and hungry for more! ;D

Anmodo: Here's Danny and Rachel, as promised, chicikita.

Loozy: Ooo! Congrats on the move! Let me know how it's going!

Here's the next chapter. I have you to thank for the encouragement, and the song "Blue and Yellow" by the Used for the inspiration. It may take me awhile to write another chapter, as grad school is now in full swing. So I madethis a long one…

(x)

Sr. Rachel Corrione sat at the table in the small kitchen of the orphanage, lost in thought. It was the first moment she'd had to herself all day. From dealing with the lawyers and the city officials, to the FBI's interrogation, to caring for the children and keeping them safe, she raced around all day in a whirlwind of activity. There hadn't been a moment to contemplate or to think about what might go wrong, or least of all, to become lost in thought.

Now as night fell, the children slept. The orphanage became quiet, and again she sat alone. Up until now, there had been no time to be sad. There had been no time to be scared. She wished that were still so, but it wasn't. There was time now for all the things she had been putting off feeling and thinking about during the awful day. Rachel frowned, as she held her chin in her hand. She feared where her thoughts might take her. Left on their own, they tended to be hopeful at their best and self-destructive at their worst.

And Rachel was feeling nowhere near her best.

Thankfully, she was spared from finding out what her thoughts had in store. At that moment, Danny Taylor meandered around the corner and into her kitchen. He crossed his arms and leaned casually against the doorframe. He'd changed out of his tattered suit and into a pair of faded jeans and a white t-shirt that fit him well. His dark hair was damp from a shower. But that wasn't all that had changed. He smiled at her, that easy smile that had not shown itself all day. It was a weary smile, but that did not matter to Rachel. What mattered was that it was there.

"Hey, mamacita," he greeted her. "Come here often?"

With some effort, Rachel's smile matched Danny's own. "All the time. Especially after work."

Danny gestured to the seat beside hers. "Is this seat taken?"

"Only by you."

(x)

Danny took the invitation and sat down beside her. He looked across the table at Rachel. He sized her up, a habit he never could drop outside the job. As for Rachel's habit, she must have left it somewhere in her closet. Instead of her simple black dress, she wore a black tank-top and khakis a size too big for her. Her brown hair rested just above her shoulders. Danny felt no shock at her change in appearance. He'd seen her in "plainclothes", as she liked to call them, on several occasions.

That wasn't what distracted him though. Rachel had the dazed, puffy look of someone who had just been drawn out of a deep sleep. However, Danny knew she hadn't seen a good night's sleep in days, maybe weeks. Danny wondered if she knew how exhausted she looked. He certainly hadn't known how lousy he looked, not until he saw himself in the mirror.

When Danny realized he was staring at her, he averted his eyes and gazed down at the tabletop in front of him. Posters of Jordan and Jason covered the table. The posters displayed a blow-up of the same picture that Danny's team kept back at the office. In big, bold letters, the poster asked the question, 'Have You Seen Me?' Underneath their picture, witnesses were urged to call a toll-free number. Danny knew it as the FBI hotline.

"I saw the flyers around town," Danny said. "They were all over the place."

Rachel traced her fingertip along the edge of Jordan and then Jason's face. "I wanted everyone to see them. I wanted someone to remember…" Rachel pulled her hands away from the photograph. When she looked back up, she asked Danny, "How are you?"

Redirection, Danny thought with a smirk. A trick from the book of Corrione that never got old. For once, he let her get away with it. "Cleaner," he answered.

"I can see that." She gazed upon him meaningfully. "You look better."

"I saw Fr. Jorge," he let her know. "We talked things out."

"You spill your guts?"

"Oh, yeah." He sat back in his chair. "Surprised I'm not curled up in the fetal position on his floor."

Rachel smiled sideways. "Yeah, he has a knack for that."

"He's good. That's for sure," Danny said. "You talk to him yet?"

"We talked all day," she said. "But we haven't said a word. You know?"

Danny knew. "I think I'm all talked out tonight," he informed her. He leaned his elbows against the table. "So you could spill your guts out to me, if you want. I promise I won't even psycho-analyze it."

Rachel smirked up at him. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

"I never do."

Rachel nodded and looked past him. When she turned back, she said, "I'll break down. Soon, I know it. I'm just so tired…"

Danny studied her face. "You look it. Have you eaten yet?"

Rachel looked up, as if searching the ceiling tiles for the answer. "I ate…yesterday. I think."

Danny got up from his chair. "Wrong answer."

Danny planned to see what the refrigerator and cabinets had to offer, but a pot of food was already on the stove. He took the lid off and looked inside. "What's this?" he asked.

Rachel arched her neck to answer him. "Tomato soup and rice. I made it for the kids."

Danny raised his eyebrows. He got out a wooden spoon from the drawer and tasted it. When he got a taste, Danny coughed. He hunched over and continuing coughing into his fist. When he stood up, he stared down at the remains in the pot and said, "It's good. You know, it's not bad."

Rachel smiled at his half-hearted attempt to save face. "You're lucky your hand is holding a spoon and not a Bible."

Danny made a face. Christ, maybe Jordan _hadn't _been kidding about the food at the orphanage. Danny laughed a little before asking, "What happened?"

"I watered it down." Rachel looked embarrassed to have to admit it. "There's only so much to go around here, Danny. You know that."

Danny looked down at what was left in the pot on the stove. "Well, in that case, I'll just have to see what I can do to spice this back to life."

"Assuming it _was _alive at some point."

Danny hit her with his smile, charming and devious. "Say what you want, but this soup doesn't stand a chance against Chef Taylor."

Rachel snorted. "Yeah, right."

"What? You think I can't do it?"

"I think an award-winning team of Emeril and Wolfgang Puck's best chefs couldn't do it." Her smile returned. "But Chef Taylor, you are welcome to try."

Danny took in a deep, decisive breath. "I don't need to try. I just need some space to work my magic."

Rachel switched chairs, Danny assumed, so she would be able to watch him work. "Cocky," she said under her breath.

"No, no. Confident. There's a difference. Cocky makes it sound like I can't live up to the talk I spin."

Rachel settled down. "Yeah, well. We'll see, Chef Taylor." She propped her legs up onto the chair across from hers and crossed her ankles. She picked up a small folder of papers and perused them at her leisure.

Danny snuck a glance at her out of the corner of his eye. He recognized the papers immediately. The papers were as crisp and formal as the business suits the lawyers wore, and he was sure that's who has brought them by. Danny saw too many legal documents in his line of work to mistake them for anything else.

He didn't ask about them though. He couldn't. He was too scared of what they might say. Instead, he focused his energy on the tomato soup in front of him. He scrutinized the seasonings above the stove. The soup was his canvas; the spice rack, his repertoire. Life seemed so much simpler when he cooked.

Rachel must not have wanted to know what the papers said either, because she let the papers fall from her hands with a slap onto the table. She pushed them aside and said, "Alright. I'm curious."

Danny sprinkled onion powder into the soup. "Size 13, unleaded, boxers, and yes. Sometimes, I gel my hair."

Rachel pondered. "I never could see you in briefs."

"Oh, but you could see me in boxers?" he teased.

Rachel smirked and rolled her eyes. "I actually have a different question to ask, Rico Suave. Different than all the other ones you just answered."

Danny recapped the onion powder and placed it back on the shelf. He turned on the burner and began to stir the soup. "Rico will now take your questions, senorita," he answered in a heavy accent.

So Rachel asked. "All right, Rico. Where'd you learn to cook?"

Danny paused. Jokes of Spanish pop songs aside, it was a good question. A wave of nostalgia that was both gentle and sweet flooded back to him. He added a pinch of basil into the soup. "I was having a rough time in one of the orphanages. St. Anne's. I didn't like it there." He huffed a small laugh, that wasn't really even a laugh at all. "Who does, right? I acted out, started causing some trouble… I just wasn't thinking, you know." Danny went to the fridge and got out a carton of half-and-half. He dribbled some into the soup. He tasted it, squinted, and then added a little more. "So, one day, I was in time-out, like usual. Halfway into it, this deacon shows up. Deacon Pete. He looked at me, and he asked me if I wanted to help him out with something. I gave him some attitude…"

"Naturally," Rachel interjected.

"But he didn't budge. He just said that he needed some help in the kitchen. He was cooking for a church dinner, and he needed a 'wingman.'" Danny laughed. "He actually called it that – a wingman. That whole day I helped him cook antipasti, risotto, manicotti with red wine sauce, Escarole soup, meatballs, sausage… You name it, we cooked it."

Rachel giggled, and Danny smiled. He turned up the burner and stirred the soup more vigorously. "Yeah, it's kinda funny now, but at the time, it meant a lot to me, you know? No one ever really took the time to single me out, never for anything good anyway. Deacon Pete made me feel special. Every time after that, whenever he had a dinner or a meal to cook, he'd ask me to give him a hand. It helped me straighten out, at least for a little while."

Rachel stared at Danny as he worked in the kitchen. "I think you turned out just fine."

Danny smiled again. He opened a bottle of olive oil and very carefully poured in just the right amount. "Well, I had a good head on my shoulders, and I had the right people around to help me shape up."

Rachel chewed her lip in thought. While she mulled over what Danny said, he seasoned the tomato soup with salt and pepper. He whisked the soup, and added a few more ingredients, until he achieved the flavor and consistency he desired.

After tasting it once more to make sure he was satisfied, Danny spooned the soup into two bowls and shook a little parsley over each. Steam curled up from the bowls as he placed one in front of Rachel and one at his place at the table.

"Como," he said grandly. "Salud."

Rachel whispered a quiet prayer over the food, and then she picked up her spoon. "All right. A drumroll, please."

Danny smiled, as she took a spoonful and tasted the soup.

Rachel closed her eyes at the taste, and instantly, Danny knew he succeeded. He kissed his fingers. "Perfecto." He dug into the tomato soup in his bowl. "Chef Taylor…Has a nice ring to it, don't you think? I oughtta start my own show on the Food Network."

"You're no chef, Danny," she said. Danny blinked in surprise, but Rachel's smile betrayed her. "You're a magician, because this is _not _the same soup."

Danny chuckled, sincerely amused. "Well, I have been known to work miracles. And speaking of the impossible, I think _someone _owes me an apology, you know, for all the lip she was givin' me."

Rachel's smirk had a life all its own. "I humbly apologize, O Chef Taylor."

"O _Great. Great Chef Taylor."_

"O Great Chef Taylor."

Danny spoke with a mouthful of food. "O Great and Sexy Chef Taylor."

Rachel kicked him lightly underneath the table. "Don't push your luck."

Danny chuckled again. The two ate their meal in silence after that. Even with all that happened, they kept quiet, as if afraid one sound would ruin the peace, the normalcy of their simple meal. Finally, Rachel put down her spoon. She held a hand against her mouth as tears came to her eyes.

By the time Danny looked up, her face had paled noticeably. "Can you feel it?" she got out. "God, it feels like they're still here."

Danny's face fell. In turn, he put down his spoon. "Rachel."

Rachel inhaled sharply. She tried in vain to keep herself together. "It's been that way, on and off all day. I went upstairs this afternoon to get Jason up from his nap. I got all the way to his bedroom door, before…before I realized…"

Danny sighed hard. He knew exactly what she meant. Just now, it felt … it felt like Jordan and Jason could be there. It felt like they could be just upstairs, like they had been so many times before. It was a common phenomenon for anyone going through trauma. Even amputees kept feeling the foot that was no longer there.

Rachel shook her head. "Danny, I'm sorry."

Danny touched Rachel's hand. It quivered in his own. "Rachel," he told her. "It's okay…"

"No." Her words were rasped and dry. "No, it's not okay. They're gone. It's nine 'o clock at night, and they're still not back."

Danny moved his chair right next to hers. He took hold of her hand. It was cold and stiff, like marble. Danny put his arm around her waist and pulled her close. He rested his head against hers, and when he looked down, he saw through her hair to the bandage on the back of her head. The bandage covering where she'd been hit with a weapon. Where Bryce Layman had knocked her unconscious.

Danny drew her near and whispered into her hair. "Rachel, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I wasn't there."

Tears fell down from Rachel's eyes. "No." She coughed. "No, Danny, you don't understand. It's my fault."

Danny shushed her. "No. Rachel, don't talk like that."

"No, you don't understand…"

Danny remembered how Fr. Jorge reassured him. He tried to grant Rachel the same comfort. "Blaming yourself won't do anything. I know, I've been there."

But Rachel just cried harder. "No, Danny, you don't understand." She broke down, and she began to cry uncontrollably. "You don't get it. It's_ my_ fault. Everything. It's all my fault…"

"No, it's not."

Rachel pushed him back, hysterical. "Yes, it is!"

Something stopped Danny from speaking then. He wasn't sure if it was a thought or a phrase or an image – but something mentally grabbed him by the collar and yanked him backwards. It left him feeling winded. He searched Rachel's eyes, for anything, any piece of understanding.

"It's my fault that this happened," she repeated again through her tears. Her body trembled, and Danny felt a lump rise in his throat.

"It's my fault that she's gone."


	59. Rachel's Confession

Thanks to anmodo, politik, and Loozy for the love and the insights. They are always welcome! Welcome to JackofSpade and Dearbhail – Thanks for the reviews! Your feedback inspires me so much.

(x)

Hysterical reactions, like Rachel's, weren't supposed to make sense, but through her hysteria she said one true thing. Danny didn't understand - not for the life of him.

Rachel cried hard against her hand. She tried to talk, but only gasps came out.

Danny supported her with his arm. "Breathe, Rachel." He instructed her in a clear, calm voice. "You have to breathe."

At the order, Rachel took in a gasping breath, followed by another just like it.

"Rachel." Danny kept saying her name aloud. In First Aid and Rescue classes, they taught that this prevented the victim from going into shock. There were certain things Danny did not believe some people could be, and Rachel was no victim. But she was hyperventilating, and Danny was prepared to do whatever was needed to stop it.

"Shh..." He held her close. "Shhh... it's okay." He rubbed her back; it felt far too warm against his hand. "You're gonna be all right."

At his touch, Rachel's tight breaths slowed down and slowed down, until she fell into deep rhythmic breathing. Her breathing was so shallow that for a moment Danny thought she'd blacked out in his arms, but then her hand squeezed his.

"Danny..." she started.

"It's okay," he reassured her.

Rachel's face registered doubt. Danny didn't press it. He no longer knew what to think himself.

With Fr. Jorge's patient counsel fresh on his mind, it was easy for Danny to switch into the role of caretaker. Still, the FBI agent in him persisted, demanding to be heard. _She said it was her fault that __Jordan__'s gone. She said it's all her fault, Danny, _his inner voice pointed out. _Just what did she mean by that? _

Questions without answers raced through Danny's mind as he hushed her. "Don't rush it, Rachel," he said. "Just take your time."

And for a brief moment, Danny wondered if he quieted her because Rachel wasn't ready to talk, or because he wasn't ready to hear it.

(x)

Rachel could feel pressure worming its way through her muscles. Just when she thought she couldn't stand the tension any longer, it relented. She let out a deep breath of relief, and she closed her eyes. Flocks of black dots chased across her field of vision and then slowly cleared away. As she came to, Rachel realized that if Danny hadn't been there to talk her down that she might have passed out cold.

Rachel brushed back her tears into her hair, embarrassed. She did not like dramatic things, not in real life anyway. Being dramatic meant losing control of her emotions. Losing control made her feel weak. It made her feel vulnerable, and feeling that way quite often made her panic.

Panicking had done nothing good for her this time (it never did, not that Rachel could recall), so she did as Danny suggested. She didn't rush it, and she took her time. In retrospect, it seemed her only alternative.

Danny left her side once, but only to get her a glass of water. When he returned, she took the glass and drank the cool tap water in slow sips. Rachel waited a moment and tried again. This time she was able to speak to him quite normally. "Danny, there's some things I haven't told you."

"Like what?" He asked her. "What's this about, Rachel?"

Rachel's face twisted in emotion again. "It's about Jordan, about the day she disappeared."

Danny frowned. "What are you talking about? The day at Northeast? The day she escaped from the detention center?"

"No. The day before the police found her. That Sunday when we were talking by the church…"

Danny's hand left hers, and Rachel's skin prickled with goose bumps. She looked up and caught a glimpse of him. Confusion set up camp on Danny's face. "Rachel, I don't understand."

There was a moment's silence where she seemed to be trying on responses and then rejecting them. God, how did it come to this? "God," she said, barely aware that she'd spoken her thoughts aloud. "God, how did it get so messed up?"

Danny didn't say anything after that. Part of Rachel was thankful. At this juncture, it was probably the smartest thing for him to say. With Danny remaining patiently silent, she took the time she needed to think and to regroup.

Rachel did not face him. Her gaze fixed on nothing straight ahead. She waited, until there was nothing else to do but to speak. She took a breath and plunged. "Saturday night, Jordan came home. She was late. She was _beyond_ late, and it wasn't the first time…"

_…In the early hours of the morning, Sr. Rachel waited in the same chair she sat in now, in jeans and a huge sweater, half-asleep and staring at the table-top. Outside she heard Jordan Coliandri scurry up the stairs of the convent, put in the security code, and unlock the door. Jordan's sneakers clumped against the hardwood floor, until she entered into the kitchen._

_Sr. Rachel turned around to face her, and __Jordan__ stopped dead in her tracks._

_Jordan__ blinked. "What're you still doing up?"_

_Sr. Rachel frowned. "Waiting for you to come home."_

_In an instant, attitude gripped __Jordan__'s tone. "Well, I'm home now. You can stop waiting." __Jordan__ went to stride past her._

_Sr. Rachel pushed up from the chair and went after her. "__Jordan__, get back in here."_

_Jordan__ paused reluctantly and then stomped back towards her. She crossed her lithe arms and threw back her black hair. "Why? So I can hear another lecture?"_

_"It's __three a.m.__," Sr. Rachel spelled out for her. "This is –not- the time we agreed upon for you to come home. This is nowhere near the time we agreed upon."_

_Jordan__'s comment seared right back. "Yeah, well, circumstances occurred which were beyond my control."_

_"Well, circumstances –here- are going to occur beyond your control, if you don't tell me what you were doing out at three 'o clock in the morning."_

_Jordan__ glared loudly. "I was at the library."_

_"At the library," Sr. Rachel repeated._

_"Yeah, I had a lot of studying to do." She went to walk away._

_"__Jordan__, get back here. __Jordan__, talk to me." Sr. Rachel grabbed her by the arm, and when Jordan turned around, her beige tote-bag fell off her shoulder and onto the ground. It opened, and a thick roll of twenty-dollar bills with a rubber band wrapped around them skittered onto the ground._

_Jordan went for the money, but Rachel had better reflexes. She snatched it off the floor in one swift motion. __Jordan__'s sigh reverberated off the walls when Rachel held it up in front of her. "What is this?"_

_Jordan__'s lips pursed. She crossed her arms, as if the very motion would hold in her silence._

_Rachel asked again. "What is this?"_

_"It's money," __Jordan__ answered._

_"I can see it's money, __Jordan__! Where did it come from?"_

_"A bank somewhere, I imagine."_

_Rachel shook the wad of money in her hand. "How did you get this?"_

_Jordan__ glared, but said nothing._

_Rachel raised her voice. "Where did you get this, __Jordan__? Talk to me."_

_Jordan__'s lips curled in annoyance. She held out her hand. "Just give me the money back, Rachel."_

_Rachel barked a hysterical bout of laughter. "Oh, I don't think so. I'm not giving this back to you until we talk about this and you tell me where you got it from." _

_Jordan__ scowled, harder. "Where do you think I got it from?" She raised her voice as well. "What did you think this was about, Rachel?"_

_"I don't know, __Jordan__!" Rachel said, throwing open her arms. "I won't know until you tell me. So tell me. Where did you get it from? Huh? It didn't just appear out of thin air into your bag. You didn't get it at the library. That's for sure."_

_Jordan__ undulated and shivered from aggravation. "It doesn't matter!" she said, stressing each word. "Just give me the money back!"_

_Rachel held the money tightly in her fist. "What? Are you stealing now?"_

_Silence._

_"Are you prostituting yourself?"_

_More silence._

_"Are you dealing?" Rachel's eyes bore into hers. She watched her shrewdly, reading __Jordan__'s thoughts as easily as she read the headlines of a newspaper. "You are. You're muling, aren't you?" Rachel shook her head in disappointment. "__Jordan__, we've talked about this. You know the rules…"_

_The rage came from everywhere and nowhere all at once. With a growl, __Jordan__ burst up, startling Rachel, and wrenched the money out of her hand. "This is mine. I don't care about your orphanage. I don't care about your fucking rules, and I don't care where you think this money came from. It's mine, alright? That's it. That's all there is to it."_

_Rachel's voice held bitterness. "__Jordan__, you can't keep living like this. Living like this has consequences."_

_Jordan__ sneered at her. "Yeah. You love to talk about consequences, don't you?"_

_"We've talked about this, __Jordan__. The first day, what did I tell you?" By some miracle, __Jordan__ stayed rooted in place, listening to her every word. "If you bring drugs into this orphanage, if you bring men into this orphanage, if you endanger the lives of the children here, you break rule number one. There are conditions, __Jordan__. I've tried to talk to you. I've tried to help you. I've tried to counsel you. For a year, I've tried everything I could! But if you don't talk to me and tell me what's going on, I have no choice but to involve the authorities."_

_Jordan__'s glare burned into her eyes. "You would call them."_

_"__Jordan__, I have to."_

_"You just couldn't wait, could you?" __Jordan__ stowed the money away in her bag. "So typical. You always cared about them more than you cared about me."_

_"Jordan, that's not true," Rachel swore. "I care about every child here, including you. But you have to realize that there are other children here besides you. I have to worry about their safety, too."_

_"Right," __Jordan__ drew out. "About Jason's safety? Away from me, right?"_

_"__Jordan__," she said, her voice strained against her teeth. "This isn't about that. This was never about that. We've talked about what would happen if you could not follow the rules."_

_Rachel expected Jordan to huff and puff and try to blow someone's house down, but she didn't this time. A look came over __Jordan__'s face. She shut down. "You want me out of here?" __Jordan__ asked. "Fine. You got it, Rachel." __Jordan__ pushed past her. "I'm gone."_

_Rachel latched onto her arm once more. "__Jordan__, I didn't mean it like that-"_

_Jordan__'s cry cut her off. "Get the FUCK off of me!"_

_Her words and actions shocked Rachel into doing just that. __Jordan__ tore through the kitchen and back out the door with Rachel at her heels. "__Jordan__!"_

_Jordan bounded down the stairs into the night outside, and Rachel ran until she caught up with her. "__Jordan__, that wasn't what I meant!"_

_Jordan__ pushed her face right into Rachel's. "You've wanted me out of here ever since I came to this orphanage." __Jordan__ glared once more and elbowed past her. "Looks like you're getting exactly what you want."_

_Rachel ran after her, shouting her name. "__Jordan! __Jordan__!"_

_But Jordan wasn't listening. She ran off, her feet pounding the sidewalk as if all the powers of hell were after her…_

Rachel spoke about the event as most people speak of trauma, in a flat tone with little affect. She stared forward miserably. "From there, I called the police," she said. "I told them that Jordan ran away again, and that I thought she was involved with drugs." Tears began to fall once more. "I told them that so that they would care that she ran away, but maybe if I hadn't told the police about the drugs, she never would have gone into that detention center. Maybe if I had given her a second chance, she'd still be here…"

She hunched over the table, and emotion found her. "Danny, I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was protecting the orphanage. But she was just a kid!" she cried. "She needed help. Not some cop beating her down at a crime scene."

Her voice quivered. "I tried to help her, but the more I wanted to know, the more she pulled away." Rachel looked up with eyes red from crying. "I keep playing it over and over again in my mind. Ever time I do, I see that she wasn't just running from the orphanage. She was running from me."


	60. Cut from the Same Cloth

Mariel3 & anmodo – Thanks for the encouragement. Sometimes it's scary how much I love the WAT characters. A sentiment I'm sure you both share!

JackofSpade – Your questions are answered in this chapter. Whoo!

Rozzy07 – I am feeling fresh energy for this story. I think it's the line of work I'm in. ;)

Loozy – More at your request!

(x)

Danny listened to every word Rachel said as she described her confrontation with Jordan. He stared mutely at the far wall of the kitchen, his arm hanging limply around Rachel's side. Rachel closed her eyes in shame, her erratic breaths the only interruption in her tears.

When Rachel could speak again, she said, "She was my responsibility, Danny. She needed so much more than I could give her, and when she ran away, I let her go." Rachel's face twisted, as if in physical pain. "I just stood there, and I let her go."

Danny swallowed and felt the cottony dryness of his throat. "You called the police?"

Rachel sniffed. "Yes."

"And you told them that you thought she was involved with drugs?"

"Yes."

Danny said softly, "Then you did what I couldn't do."

So many feelings seared through Danny's core, that he could only voice the first thought that came to mind. He believed Rachel's story, every word of it. Rachel's interaction with Jordan was a textbook example, and one Danny had taken part in all too often. Danny witnessed Jordan's last outburst a week before, in the interrogation room at the NYPD. He had been trained for situations like Jordan's by the federal government, and he still left the room feeling frustrated and defeated.

Danny didn't always feel that way upon ending interrogations with defiant teenagers. On the contrary, he usually left feeling only more competent in his interrogative skills. In a missing person's case, it wasn't about making people feel more comfortable with their situation. It was about getting answers that would help find their loved ones. However, it was different when the kids felt like your own, when you imagined that they _were _your own. In this case, Danny had wanted to end their pain, Rachel's, Jordan's, Jason's, his own – to smooth it all over like the sheets of a well-made bed. Rachel and Danny tried to be authority figures, caretakers, friends, and yes, parents. But Jordan and Jason weren't Danny and Rachel's children. They were scared kids that they cared for deeply, and kids that they had only known for a few short years.

Jordan's mother and father were the ones who were supposed to be there for them. Rachel could feed and clothe Jordan and Jason, and she could make them feel safe. But she could not replace the parents they lost. Danny knew that from personal experience. No one could fill that emptiness. Many tried, but they were trying to fill a void that could not be filled, not with all the good intentions in the world.

It was easy to reason through, but infinitely more difficult to see. Rachel didn't see two children that she gave everything to try and save. In Rachel's eyes, everything that transpired was proof that she failed to keep her children safe. She was so determined to punish herself, that she missed her best, most valiant efforts.

Years ago, Fr. Jorge once told him that he and Rachel were cut from the same cloth. He hadn't understood what Fr. Jorge had meant. Not until now.

Rachel lips took on several shapes without saying anything. She looked small and frail. "Danny, what are you talking about?"

"Rachel, you were here for Jordan when no one else was." He whispered, "You're so strong, Rachel. You're so much stronger than you know."

Rachel looked up with red, puffy eyes. "Danny…she was my responsibility."

Danny couldn't forgive his family for the things they'd done. He couldn't forgive himself. But he could forgive Rachel for being human. In comparison, it seemed such an effortless thing to do. "You did your job, Rachel." Danny's voice quivered. "It's not your fault."

"She needed more…"

"It's not your fault."

A cry built up in Rachel's throat, and she clamped her teeth against it. "No…" Rachel began to sob.

Danny held her. "Shh…It's okay."

They hugged, both closing their eyes. Rachel spoke through her tears. "I miss them," she said. "I miss them. I just love them so much."

Danny steeled himself, remaining strong for her. "I know. I know."

Rachel did not move from Danny's side. There was nothing to do, but to let her grieve. Her sobbing was insistent and low and heartbreaking. Outside of the orphanage, the night wind howled as if it too was seeking lost children.

(x)

Martin Fitzgerald walked back through the doors of the Missing Person's Unit, still wearing his dark grey trench coat. Around him, other agents worked on their investigations and on Danny's own, which was both soothing and frustrating in equal parts.

Martin hadn't felt like himself since Jack threw him out of the office. Jack had upset him. He'd made him feel reckless and incompetent, but he'd been right about one thing. Martin needed to leave the office, at least for a little while. He needed to get his emotions in check. He'd only walked the five block radius around the office, but he had needed to make the short walk alone, in the cold, to clear his head. The office walls were strange. If you stayed behind them long enough, they could become a refuge or a prison, or both. Either way, it hindered your vision if you stayed there too long.

Martin slung his trench coat over the back of his chair, and he sat down at his desk. Being behind a desk made Martin feel better. It made him feel like himself – calm and in control.

At his seat, Martin could see his reflection in the dark computer monitor in front of him. His face looked drawn, as if he could use a cigarette. More and more Martin was beginning to understand why Jack had taken up smoking in his early years. Anything to take your mind off the things you'd done, that you thought you'd done in the interest of others.

Martin shook his head and sighed. Jack thought he had used Danny and manipulated him to get back at Layman. There was a piece of truth in that, but it wasn't the whole story. In reality, Martin didn't know enough about Danny to fill the bottom of a coffee mug. Danny played his cards so close to his chest, that Martin wasn't even sure that he held cards at all.

What he did know was that Danny was hurting and that Danny was angry. Hell, when wasn't he? Anger was the engine that made Danny run. But that was where the information on Danny Taylor began and ended. Martin had known Danny would beat the shit out of Layman, but he hoped the confrontation would give Danny closure, too. He never meant for the consequences to get so out of control. Martin played a game of blindfolded darts. He didn't know whether he won or lost. In a lot of ways, he felt like he was still wearing the blindfold. Maybe they all still were.

During his walk, Martin had done some thinking. Danny was his friend and his confidante. They were close, but what happened to Danny wasn't happening to Martin, not in the same way. It was time to start acting like it.

It wasn't too late. He could still make things right.

Martin pushed his chair back. He got up and went over to Vivian's desk, which was still turned on. He pulled up the last files she viewed on her computer. A mug shot of a twenty-year-old convict stared back at him from the screen.

Chris Grierson.

Martin spent the next twenty minutes typing away at the computer, opening files, searching databases, and using the FBI's surface technology to its fullest extent. Before too long, he made a call on his cell phone.

"Agent Samantha Spade."

"Hey. It's me." He cut her off before she could say anything else. "I know what I did, and I know what Jack said. But you need me if we're going to find those kids."

Martin waited for her reply. Finally, Samantha said, "We're heading to Chris Grierson's apartment. We think he might have been involved with Jordan. He's a twenty-year-old-"

"New York resident convicted of drug possession." Martin explained. "You can thank Vivian. She left her computer up and running."

"You're breaking company policy." But even as she said it, Martin heard the warmth of her words.

Martin hoped she could hear him smile. "Everyone's good for something."

"Well, while you're there, try to see if you can come up with any background or any past aliases. We looked, but there wasn't enough time to do a thorough search."

"Ten steps ahead of you. Chris Grierson once lived in Chicago, Illinois where he went by the name of Brad Carver. He was never charged, but he was suspected of drug trafficking in a number of cases."

"Brad Carver. If he went by that name, he could have gone by others."

"Could be. I'm working on it."

"Okay, we're at the apartment building. I'll call you back."

"Be careful."

"And Martin?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

When Martin got off the phone, he went back to work at the computer. He hoped Samantha and Vivian would find the people responsible for Jordan and Jason's disappearance. He hoped by searching through the FBI databases that he could shed some light on their whereabouts.

And wherever Danny was, Martin hoped he was okay.


	61. 22 Hours Missing

Another chapter as ordered! Thanks to Mariel, anmodo, and rozzy. You guys rock.

(x)

Samantha closed her phone and joined Vivian on the sidewalk. A pink neon sign spelled out "Ray's Liquors and Spirits" in swirling cursive, its fancy script in stark contrast to the liquor shop itself. The neon writing flickered on and off at stilted intervals, as if threatening to go out completely - but not quite able to go through with it. Aside from the pink glow of neon light, the building stood dark and still. The apartment windows above the liquor store stared back with dead eyes.

"Not exactly the Hilton on High Street is right," Vivian murmured. Samantha and Vivian returned commiserating looks. To say the least, they were not astounded.

They headed toward the building at a smart pace, their long coats blowing back in the night wind. Vivian turned to Sam. "I take it Martin's back."

"That's what he tells me."

Samantha did her best to cover it, but Vivian heard the anxiety in her voice. She wouldn't address it though. There would be time for that later. As they reached the door of the liquor store, Vivian said, "All right. Let's do this."

The door jingled at their entrance. Vivian and Samantha stalked past aisles of Whiskey and Scotch. Somewhere in the store, a radio lightly played a Lynard Skynard song. A balding white male in his mid-forties looked up from the New York Post he was reading behind the counter. Vivian could only assume this was Ray.

Ray's expression immediately changed from stark boredom to one of heightened awareness. This man recognized them; not by face, but by posture and by the air that breezed in with them. His back straightened, stiff as a flagpole, and Ray stood up from his seat.

He knew they were Feds. Vivian flashed her badge all the same. "Excuse me, sir. FBI. I'm Special Agent Johnson. This is Special Agent Spade."

He put down the newspaper and backed up. "What do you want?"

"We just want to ask you a few questions."

"About what?"

"We have some questions about one of your tenants. Chris Grierson." Vivian produced a picture of the young man, as well as his mug shot.

Ray took the photos. Upon seeing the mug shot, he nodded, as if to say 'figures' and looked up. "Yeah. Yeah, I know him. I signed him up on a lease three months ago."

Vivian crossed her arms. "Uh-huh. What else can you tell us about him?"

"He kept to himself, didn't make a lot o f noise. He always paid cash, so we never had any problems." The man handed back the photographs. "What's this all about anyways?"

"He's suspected to be involved with a 16-year-old girl named Jordan Coliandri." Vivian informed him. Samantha held out the next picture of Jordan and Jason, which the man took.

"Oh yeah," he said.

"You know her?" Samantha demanded.

"Yeah," Ray said, not quite understanding their urgency. "'Blue eyes comes in here draggin' her kid in tow every couple days or so. I didn't say much. Figured they had a love thing."

"You've seen her," Samantha said hurriedly. "Is she here?"

Ray frowned. "No. I haven't seen her in few weeks."

Samantha followed up. "Are you sure? Think about it. How about last night? Did you see anything?"

He raised his voice. "I already told ya. I haven't seen her for over two weeks!"

"How often did she come here?"

"Every couple days. Like I said."

"Mornings, afternoons, evenings?"

"Anytime she wanted to," he said. "We're not exactly a closed-gated community, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"Did she ever spend the night?"

"Yeah," he answered, hands up in the air. "Sometimes. Yeah."

Vivian narrowed her eyes at the man in time with Samantha. "This girl is sixteen-years-old. This renter of yours is going on twenty-one. Didn't you think about contacting the authorities?"

Ray smirked at them. "Just between you and me I gotta lil' more to worry about than a four year age difference, ma'am. It's not exactly Bloomingdales in here. Besides, last time I checked, she didn't _look _sixteen. Hell, if you ask me, she looks even older than he does. I wouldn't be surprised if this kid thought the same thing." He made a noise that might have been a chuckle, might have been a snort. "Either way, who he sleeps with ain't my problem."

Vivian addressed him. "Well your twenty-year-old tenant has been convicted of drug possession and is currently one of the only suspects in Jordan Coliandri and her three-year-old brother's disappearance." She sent the man a dry and uncompromising gaze. "So I guess this tenant _is _your problem."

"He was," Ray said.

Vivian was not in the mood for playing games. "He was what?"

"He was my problem. He's not any more. Kid cleared out last night."

(x)

Vivian spared only a moment to shock before demanding, "What time last night?"

"Around 7 'o clock ... No, 8. Well." He stared up uncertainly.

"You have no idea what time it was?"

Ray tried to redeem himself by saying, "I know it was dark out."

Sam and Vivian shared another glance. At Vivian's prompting, Ray led them upstairs to Chris Grierson's former apartment. Ray got out his keys and unlocked the door, saying, "Kid didn't leave much, but you're free to poke around."

"Yes." Sam provided him with a search warrant. "We are."

When Ray opened the door, he flicked on the light, and Vivian and Samantha walked inside.

Ray stayed outside the door. He shifted in place before saying, "It looks like you've got everything you need. No sense in keepin' me around. You don't mind, I gotta go back and watch the store." He was gone before they could protest.

As he hulked back down the steps, Samantha turned to Vivian. "You smell his breath?"

"Yeah. He's not just the owner. He's his own best customer, too."

Upon his leaving, Samantha drew her gun and went to check the rest of the apartment. Given the state of the apartment building, she wasn't about to take chances. She canvassed the rooms for any signs of fugitives or freeloaders, but came up with only two deserted bedrooms and a dirty bathroom. "It's clear," Sam announced, replacing her gun at her side. "Aside from the dust mites."

Vivian nodded. Given the situation, she too preferred that they err on the side of caution. Convinced now that they were alone in the apartment, Vivian and Samantha carefully walked the wooden floorboards of the room. In the kitchen, she noticed a table and chairs had been left behind, along with a couch, and two mattresses. Odd possessions - a half-eaten bag of potato chips, a hooded sweatshirt, a pile of old magazines, empty beer cans, and papers – littered the floor.

"Somebody left in a hurry," Vivian commented.

"Yeah," Samantha whispered. She checked the refrigerator and found it full. "It doesn't look like he packed any sandwiches for the ride either."

"All right." Vivian took out her cell phone. "We need to get this place fingerprinted. The sooner we can prove Jordan and Jason were here the better." In no time, she was on the phone with Martin. "Hey. Welcome back... I need a team to come to 3665 Broadway. Yes, the apartment's above the liquor store. Yes, please, make it fast."

When Vivian hung up, Samantha stood by her, shaking her head. "What was she doing in a place like this?"

"Escaping," Vivian answered.

"Yeah. But from what?"

"Drugs, Bryce Layman, the convent. Or maybe it's simpler than that." Vivian gazed around the apartment. "Maybe running's all she's ever known."

Samantha looked away at that comment, deciding not to let it affect her in any personal way. She walked quietly through the apartment, taking in the two-bedroom with fresh eyes. She entered into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Inside were baby wipes, tampons, toothpaste, and aftershave.

_They left their mark, _she thought. Samantha traced her fingers over the container of baby wipes. She looked over at the empty bath tub. In her mind's eye, she could see Jordan wrapping a towel around Jason, drying him off from a shower. Jordan laughed and smiled, rubbing her nose with his...

When Vivian spoke up behind her, it was a wonder Samantha didn't jump. "Whatever happened, it spooked our Chris Grierson into getting out as fast as he could."

"But why would he take off?" she asked out loud. "Why this time? Why now?"

Vivian shrugged. "Maybe it's like we've said. Bryce takes Jason. But it's too late for them to do anything about it. Jordan's already miles away on the run."

Samantha shook her head. "No. No, her whole world was that little boy. She wouldn't just take off."

"Maybe she wouldn't," Vivian said. She held up the mug shot of Chris Grierson. "But this clown might."

"Something went wrong," Samantha said, looking around. "That much we can tell."

"You're right about that. C'mon," Vivian said. "If Captain Morgan downstairs noticed something, chances are the neighbors did, too."

They exited the apartment where the beat up doors led to three other apartments. Even in the hallway, the bitter scent of booze mixed with the sweet smell of pot smoke.

"Yeah," Samantha mumbled to herself. "If they're in any better shape than he was."


	62. One Hell of a Memory

Another chapter comes swiftly your way! Thanks to anmodo, JackofSpade, Mariel, and Loozy for the reviews! And Loozy, no worries at all! I know very well what it's like to be busy.

(x)

Martin sprung up from his desk, his cell phone pinned between his shoulder and his ear. "3665 Broadway in West Manhattan. Special Agents Spade and Johnson need a fingerprinting team for the apartment upstairs. Yeah. Yeah, they'll be there. All right. Thanks."

Martin hung up and placed his cell phone back on his belt. He barely had a moment to collect himself, when another agent called to him, "Martin."

He swerved around to face Special Agent Amelia Gallagher. The woman was only a few years older than Martin, but right now she rushed toward him with the speed and urgency of an agent just placed in the field.

"Hey. What's going on?"

Amelia got right to business. "You're working the Coliandri case."

Martin couldn't tell if it was a statement or a question. "Yeah." He focused. "Why? What is it?"

Amelia paused. Immediately, Martin began to fear the worst. Something had happened to Samantha or to Vivian out in the field. Maybe Danny finally lost the last thread of his sanity and gone Die Hard with a Vengeance. Something still akin to guilt stayed with him, poking a sharp finger in his ribs. Good lord, Martin hoped that wasn't the case…

Amelia finally answered, "A man came in, regarding Jordan and Jason Coliandri. I thought you might have heard it first. But then I saw you here…"

Martin blinked. "Who is he?"

Amelia pointed out to the glass doors of the office to a man sitting with an FBI visitor's pass draped around his neck. Draped wasn't exactly the word. The lanyard gripped a neck that belonged on the Incredible Hulk, instead of the blue suit sitting in the hallway. But to call him a mutant would have been an overstatement. The man looked more like a Pepsi machine.

"His name is Michael Aderes. He came all the way up from a law office in Bangor, Maine." Amelia shook her head, puzzled. "He says he's their uncle."

(x)

Vivian and Samantha knocked on the door across from Grierson's apartment and then on the one next door. Their knocks rang hollow and unanswered. Sighing in frustration, Samantha walked up and banged on the last apartment door closest to the entrance.

To her surprise, the door opened – partially anyway. It cracked open, halted by the brass of a chain lock. "Who's there?" A woman with a voice roughed by cigarettes peeked out.

Samantha showed her badge. "My name's Special Agent Spade. I have a few questions-"

The woman immediately panicked. "Oh, no, you don't!" She went to slam the door, but Samantha jammed her foot in between the door and the wall.

Samantha winced as the door slammed against her toes. She elbowed the door, keeping it from crushing her foot. "We just want to talk to you!" she shouted.

"Bullshit!" the woman shouted back. She struggled with the door. "Whatever it was, I didn't do it!"

Vivian hurried to Samantha's side and fought with her to keep the door open. "We don't want to hurt you, ma'am," Vivian said, her voice strained. "We just want to ask you about Chris Grierson."

The woman frantically answered, "Never heard of the guy. I'm sorry. I can't help you!" For a gangly woman, she had muscle in her upper arms. She shoved her hands against the door, pushing Samantha back. Samantha lost her grip and tumbled backwards into Vivian - hard.

Vivian caught her around the middle, but just as they got to her feet, the door slammed shut with a bang. A lock clicked into place, and once again all was still.

Samantha fought to catch her breath.

Vivian gave her a once over. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Looks like somebody didn't get enough beauty sleep." Samantha groaned, holding her foot. "Goddammit. I oughtta drag her out and arrest her for physical assault of an FBI agent, obstructing an investigation, failing to cooperate with an officer of the law..." She glared at the door. "I bet I can find plenty of contraband in that place. Not to mention some building permit and fire code violations."

Under other circumstances, Vivian certainly would have found the humor in the situation. In this one, she shared Samantha's exasperation. "The troops should be here before Miss Congeniality gets any more ideas," Viv reassured her. "If Martin works as fast as he usually does."

Samantha leaned against the wall next to the door, massaging her foot. "Too bad Danny isn't here. He'd have kicked the door down by now."

The door creaked open. Samantha looked on in shock. The chain still in place, the woman called out cautiously, "Danny?" Eyes with dark bags underneath them stared out at them. "Jordan's Danny?"

Vivian and Samantha looked at each other. They tried their best not to look stunned and failed. Vivian found her voice first. "You know Danny Taylor?" Then. "Do you know Jordan Coliandri?"

The woman closed her eyes. For a long moment, she didn't say anything at all, but she didn't close the door either.

Vivian spoke as gently as possible. "Ma'am, we work with Danny Taylor. He's an FBI agent with the city of New York. He's been trying desperately to locate two missing children, Jordan and Jason Coliandri." Vivian neared her in slow movements. "Ma'am, any information you have on their whereabouts would be greatly appreciated. We've been trying to find them since they disappeared last night."

The woman looked up with sad eyes, with a face that had been hit one too many times and a body that had done far too many cheap drugs. Her eyes connected with Vivian's. Finally, she said, "Jordan came in here with Chris early this morning. She had to get her tote-bag. You know, that old ratty thing she carries around with her…"

… _Jordan__ sprinted down the hallway, clutching her tote-bag under her arm._

_Chris implored her, his voice scared and urgent. "C'mon. C'mon, babe. Hurry up. Let's go! We gotta get out of here."_

_As __Jordan__ ran past, Tina reached out and grabbed her arm. "Kid…" Jordan halted and looked up, her cheeks streaked with tears. Tina's voice grew softer in concern. "Kid, are you all right?"_

_"I'm sorry, Tina." She couldn't say anything else. "I'm sorry."_

_Tina squinted. Smoke curled up around their faces from Tina's half-lit cigarette. "__Jordan__… Jordan, honey, what's going on?"_

_"I'm sorry," she repeated. __Jordan__ hurriedly brushed away her tears. "Please. Whatever you do, whatever you hear. Don't hate me, okay?"_

_"__Jordan__. Why in the world would I hate you?" _

_Chris called loudly from down the hall. "__Jordan__! C'mon! Let's go!"_

_Jordan__ pulled away from Tina's grasp. "I have to go…" … _

Tina never opened the door further. "I don't know who Danny is," she said. "But Jordan talked about him all the time. He's done nothing but good in that girl's life. All he's tried to do is keep her safe."

Samantha and Vivian listened, barely believing the information that rushed to their ears. Samantha immediately said, "Tina, you're right. We want nothing more than to find Jordan and keep her safe. But I need you to do one thing. If you know where Chris took Jordan, I need you to tell me where that is. Do you know where he took her?"

Tina spared a moment to deliberate. Then she spoke. "Chris took a job."

"Drugs?" Samantha asked quietly.

Tina sucked in a nervous breath. Her silence answered their question. "It's at the Downtown Boathouse outside Hudson River Park. I don't know what happened since then. But I know that Jordan left with him early this morning. As far as I know, the plan was for them to end there."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure," she said. "I've got one hell of a memory."

Samantha felt her breath catch in her throat. "Thank you," Samantha said. "Thank you for telling us."

Quite suddenly, Tina reached out and touched Samantha's arm.

Samantha looked back, perplexed.

"What's your name, honey?" Tina asked her.

"Samantha."

"Samantha, hurry," Tina said. "She looked like she was in trouble." Tina slammed the door shut before either Samantha or Vivian could say another word.


	63. Familiar Shadows

Wow, Mariel, I guess I AM on a roll! This story is such an outlet for me. Thanks to Mariel, rozzy, and anmodo! After two years, I still can't believe that people enjoy this story as much as I do. :)

(x)

For Danny, it was all too familiar. Rachel's sobs began to slow, and slow, until finally her crying quieted all together. Her crying continued, but she did not sob. Involuntary tears trickled down her cheeks, silent in their descent.

Her damp cheeks rested against the thin cotton of Danny's T-shirt; her tears seeped through the fabric. Danny barely even noticed. He gently brushed the fly-aways out from Rachel's eyes. Danny couldn't take his eyes away from her face. She looked so small and so very young – as most people did when they were grieving. Without breaking the silence, he cradled her, placing one arm under the bend of her knees and the other around her waist. He lifted her up, stood, and carried her into the living room of the orphanage.

Rachel looped her arms around Danny's neck, pulling him close. He carefully walked up to the brown and orange couch and set her down onto its soft cushions. The couch was familiar in that Salvation Army sort of way. The whole living room was, but it was the couch that caught Danny's attention. When Danny first saw the old, ratty couch years ago, he could have sworn he'd seen it before. Maybe in another church basement or another downtown orphanage. He wasn't sure. His memories were hazy, distant and hard to hold. It gave him an odd and haunting feeling. It was almost like coming home.

Danny sank down beside Rachel on the couch. He laced an arm over her shoulder, and Rachel naturally moved back, resting her legs over his waist. She collapsed against him, resting her head on his chest. Danny closed his eyes, and the events of the day melted away, like a light dusting of snow in the warm sun. For just a moment, he forgot everything. In spite of all its importance, he forgot that the orphanage was closing down. He forgot that he may never see Jordan or Jason again. He forgot that he had an emotional breakdown in confession, and he forgot that by all rights he should be scared, grieving, and miserable.

He breathed deep, and he smelled… a faint, sweet scent, shampoo or body lotion. Danny felt apart from time and space. Had he been here before? Had he been here – right here – before? Danny knew it was impossible, but so many of the events of the day had been impossible until only 24 hours ago. He allowed now for the possibility. Maybe he'd been here with Rachel…even if it was only in his mind.

Rachel moved her arm back around his waist. Danny shirked from his trance. He looked down and once again absent-mindedly brushed her hair out of her eyes. "How bout it, gorgeous? How are you feelin'?"

"I'm great."

Danny snorted. "Yeah. Right."

"Oh yeah. Fine." She used the word fine again. Every time it came out of her mouth it sounded a little more threadbare.

"Yeah. You sound it."

"I broke down."

"Just like you said you would."

Rachel glanced upward. "You're not the only one who can keep promises."

Danny rubbed her back affectionately. "You're more than that. You're a trooper, mamacita. Don't forget it."

Rachel huffed a condescending laugh. "Yeah." She brushed the tears from her eyes. "I'm a real soldier."

"You have your moments." Danny arched his neck to stare up out of the living room to look towards the steps. He looked back and asked, "How're the kids doing?"

"They're scared," Rachel said. "But they're brave. God, they're brave. They've been through so much, but somehow – they take it in and they just keep going."

"Sounds like someone I know."

A smile crept onto her face, and true to form Rachel changed the subject. "I sang Kylie to sleep." She stared forward, still smiling. "I sat and waited with her until her breathing was soft and slow. Until I _knew _she was asleep, so she wouldn't have to be alone."

"What'd you sing?" Danny asked.

"Lullabye. That Billy Joel song."

Danny arched an eyebrow playfully. "And she slept?"

Rachel punched him in the shoulder, and Danny snickered. "Jerk," she said. "I'd like to see _you_ try it."

Danny raised his eyebrows, up and down double-time. "Well, I am Rico Suave."

"Yeah. Just keep telling yourself that, chico."

"Oh, but you're Julie Andrews, right?"

"Hey, I may not have the best set of pipes, but it's not like I belted it out Broadway style." Rachel settled back against his chest. "I think it helped, if only to have someone there."

Danny rested his chin on her forehead. "I don't doubt it," he whispered.

"She just cares about Jordan so much. Kylie's just one of those kids. You know?" Rachel fell into dialogue. "No last name. No background. Even if she did have a history, it wouldn't be one you'd want to know. And you can tell. She's never had a family that treated her right, really treated her like she deserved. Sometimes I even wonder if she'd know love if she saw it. It's just so beyond her." Rachel's voice filled with passion. "And it's all she wants. Everything about her screams it. That all she wants is to be loved." Rachel sighed. "And she's so good. I don't think most people get that about her. That deep down – she's just crying out for someone to see the good inside her and love her for all she's worth."

Danny leaned back into the couch. He let Rachel go on, and she did. "And then there's Roberto. There was no choice for that kid. He just had to grow up. His mom was never around, and when she was, she certainly wasn't raising Roberto. So he took care of himself and his younger sister. He's just so parentified, so used to having all the responsibility of being an adult. Being a child is just so foreign to him." Rachel relaxed against Danny. "But he's got such a good heart. He's such a natural leader. Like you can see him when he smiles, ten years into the future, in the cap and gown, holding his diploma. Or wearing an army uniform. Or raising his hand in chemistry classes in college. It's this light he carries around him…"

Rachel spoke of each of the children in turn: Hector, a barrio kid two months out of Juvenile; Alysha, quiet and pretty, but so traumatized that she was still learning to talk at seven years old; D'Angelo, who had been sexually molested by his father for six years before he ran onto the street; Lucinda, who at thirteen had already spent a year selling herself on the streets of New York, and all the others.

She spoke of them as the small children they were – of how unfair their short lives were and of how they deserved better. She spoke of her dreams and the dreams they had for themselves. Their lives and the impact they had upon her flowed from her like rain. When she finally gave pause, she let out a long, drawn out sigh of release. "What's happening is going to be hard for them," she said. "They're going to go through so many changes, so fast and so soon." Then she whispered. "I just wish I could give them more."

Danny waited for a long moment, allowing his thoughts and feelings to process. Then he said, "You do give them more, Rachel. You give them more than many of them have ever had."

"Lucky for me, I have some help."

In that moment, Danny thought of Jordan. He thought of Jason. He thought of the orphanage in its entirety, every child here now, every child who had passed through its doors. He closed his eyes.

"We do what we can, Danny," Rachel said. To Danny, it seemed she was saying it to him, but mostly to herself. "You try to save them, but you can't save them all."

Danny nodded. It was a hard truth, perhaps the hardest. Sadly, he could only agree.


	64. Shut Down

Rozzy07: I love that you're enjoying it! Thanks for your input! It really helps. As for the stories of others bringing perspective – I agree. Sometimes hearing about the lives of others can help us appreciate our own. But at the same time, pain is relative. We all have our hardships to go through, and they are all equally important.

Anmodo: Thanks, anmodo. I saw that really clearly in my mind. I'm just glad I was able to get it down on paper! Now, if only we could clone Danny Taylor….;)

Mariel3: Mariel! Yes, I do feel like posting more! Thanks for the inspiring review.

JackofSpade: Haha! You seem to all be getting your wish, because it takes me so long to write! But for my sake, I can only hope there is an ending at some point. Thanks for the review!

Short chapter, but at least it's a continuation!

(x)

Jack Malone and Detective Sanders reached the Hudson River Park across from the Downtown Boathouse less than ten minutes after Vivian Johnson and Samantha Spade. They pulled in and parked away from the Boathouse in a lot across from the park, as Jack suggested, to keep a low profile. Vivian called in the Coast Guard and the NYPD from her cell phone, while Jack called for FBI back-up. By the time they made their way through Hudson River Park, the authorities were moving in around the perimeters and surrounding the boathouse.

From a distance, it was easy to see why the traffickers had picked the site. It was secluded from the public, outside of town, and poorly lit by overhead streetlights. There was no doubt in Jack's mind that this area had been used for transporting illegal goods and services before.

Jack shook his head. _This place should have been put on ice months ago._ Why hadn't that happened? Jack's trained imagination took over. Dirty cops, quiet neighbors, well-paid guardsmen… The possibilities were endless, if you had the time and the motivation to think them up. Regardless of the fact, Jack didn't want to explore the possibilities, especially not with the NYPD in hearing range.

It didn't matter what got them to this point. Right now all he cared about were the kids.

Jack pressed his back against the fence that guarded the boathouse. The wind pushed the collar of his trench coat against his cheek. He could hear the soft conversation of the drug traffickers on the other side. Jack peered in through the grooves of the fence, holding his breath. The men and women packed guns at their sides and told jokes of such filthiness that only they were willing to laugh at them, which they did, in quiet snickers.

Jack Malone infiltrated crime scenes as part of his living. At each one, his instincts served him well. At some crime scenes, he felt that the slightest move could put him in hell before he knew he was dead. At others, he felt the sensation that he was being watched, that his presence was somehow instinctively known by the perpetrators.

At this crime scene, Jack felt the absence of fear and the presence of absolute stupidity. The runners joked and fooled around, with the cops less than ten feet away. The poor bastards didn't have the first clue that the heat was on to them. And why would they? It wasn't like they were high priority. They were just another small-time drug run in a city that hosted a million a day.

_Morons, _Jack thought. He whispered into the communicator on his wrist. "Six at the South Entrance. Stand by."

The NYPD radioed back into his earpiece. "Affirmative. Guns are down."

Jack Malone's eyes surveyed the area. He still didn't see Jordan, but he couldn't wait all day either. They'd have to go in. Jack whispered, "Third party at South Entrance. We're going in."

"Copy that. North entrance will comply."

Jack gripped his gun. He turned around and stared into Samantha's wide brown eyes. "On my count."

Samantha protested. "No, Jack. Let me go first."

Jack knew her concerns. He still felt the wound throbbing and pulsing where the bullet sliced across his arm. "On my count," Jack repeated in a hard voice. He stood directly in front of Samantha. "One…two…three…"

An FBI agent banged a large, blunt device into the fence door, smashing it open. At the same moment, blinding lights from above beat down on the runners. Jack and Samantha ran forward, guns drawn and pointing outward. "FBI!" Jack bellowed at the top of his voice. "Drop your weapons! FBI! Get down on the ground! Get down on the ground now!"

The runners cursed and shouted to each other and scattered like roaches under white light. They darted across the boathouse in one last dash effort to escape, but the FBI, NYPD, and the Coast Guard outnumbered them by far. Shocked voices and high-pitched cries sounded all around them. FBI agents and police officers tackled the runners one by one, screaming orders for them to stay on the ground. It happened so suddenly and with such force, that not one gun had been fired.

Jack breathed heavily. In the midst of the chaos, he searched the grounds, canvassing the arena in a heartbeat, looking for children, looking for Jordan, looking for…

Jack saw him. Across the dock, Chris Grierson a.ka. Brad Carver swung his line of vision back and gasped as he caught Jack's eye. Chris looked caught in the headlights – the blinding kind that poachers use to freeze deer before they kill them.

Jack's feet pounded into a run. "STOP! FBI! FREEZE!"

Chris Grierson did just the opposite. He sprinted down the deck in the desperate run of a fugitive, like his ass wanted to get out of there before the rest of him did. Whether from natural or learned agility, Chris sped towards the Boathouse at a pace even faster than Jack's. Jack felt a thrill of dread as Chris took off for the Park. Shit, he was going to lose him. He was going to—

Samantha's arm shot out from the shadows, clothes-lining Grierson across the chest and sending him crashing backwards onto the ground. Grierson's back hit the ground with a sickening 'thud', and he let out a fireball scream.

Jack skidded to a halt, and Samantha looked up at him with a grin that would have done the Cheshire Cat proud. Jack shook his head at her, but there was no time to exchange banter now.

Jack reached down, grabbed the thug by the shirt collar, and yanked him up to his feet. Chris struggled and protested, but it did him no favors. In easy practiced moves, Jack pulled Chris' arms back and strapped a pair of handcuffs around his wrists. "Hi, Bard," he sang.

Wild brown hair and sweat matted Chris Grierson's forehead. He panted, looking from side to side with the wide, crazed eyes of a caged animal. "Get… Get the fuck off of me, man!" His high-pitched voice pierced the night sky.

Jack roughly turned him around to face him. At the same time, Samantha said, "Get a grip, Brad. Where's Jordan Coliandri?"

Chris' eyes looked scared now. "I don't know."

Jack's eyes widened, instantly ready to do battle. "Don't tell us you don't know! Tell us where she is." When he buckled, Jack added, "Now!"

"I don't know!" he repeated.

"You do NOT-" He shoved Chris backwards into a concrete wall. "Want to MESS with me right now, you little pissant! Where's Jordan Coliandri? We know you brought her here. Now, where is she?"

Chris shoulders hunched forward. Without warning, he broke down right in front of them. "She's not here!" he shouted back. His mouth quivered, and blood dripped down from the side of his bruised lip. "She's not here any more."

"Oh yeah?" Jack barked. "Then where is she?"

"I don't know," Chris swore. "I swear to God I don't know. I don't know where they are. I wish I knew."

Samantha took him by the shoulder. "They," she repeated. "What do you mean 'they'? Who else is with Jordan?"

"Her brother. Jason."

(x)

The FBI agents exchanged glances. Chris looked back and forth between them. He was in deep shit, and he was beginning to realize just how deep. Just now, he likened the situation to being thrown into a lion's den. There had time to climb out of the den before, while the lions were sleeping. But Chris thought he was at a 5-star hotel. He'd only seen the money, the street credit, the ticket out of town... Only now did he see his surroundings for what they were. The FBI agents were the lions, and the lions smelled blood.

Chris had hopes in the beginning. He hoped to return to Chicago, to continue his life there with Jordan. He hoped to start a business, to have an apartment, to help raise Jason. He hoped to start over. Even as Chris thought it, he knew how stupid and hopeless it was.

Now, the Feds had him. Chris stared off into the distance, towards the trucks carrying his goods. The NYPD opened the trunk and tore apart the cartons with a crowbar. He could see the police officers picking up the bricks of weed, commenting on the load. One smirked. He held up one of the bricks and mouthed to the other, 'Jack-pot'.

Chris had been holding onto some kind of hope, no matter how foolish it was. Now, his drug run was over. His crew was arrested, and Jordan was gone. The expression on Jack Malone's face told him all he needed to know, and all at once, his hopes were gone.

Jack pushed his shoulder forward. "C'mon, Romeo. Time to talk."

They led him away, and Chris didn't even put up a fight.


	65. Truth Be Told

Thanks to my wonderful readers, anmodo, Mariel, Loozy, and JackofSpade for the reviews. Here's some of those answers you were looking for. :)

(x)

Chris stood backed up against a concrete wall in front of agents Jack Malone and Samantha Spade. His brown hair stuck up around his boyish features, dirty with twigs and leaves from his fall to the ground. He wrung his hands together, rapt with fear. Jack invaded his space, bearing down on him intrusively. "You better start talking to me, Brad."

Chris Grierson breathed heavily, his eyes darting from side to side. Chris hadn't always looked this scared; Samantha bet that much. It was easy to have backbone around your drug dealing friends. But standing in front of two federal officers, with his friends in handcuffs and his dope bags labeled as evidence? He had all the spine of a dying jellyfish.

He broke federal laws and had no trouble putting himself, Jordan, and Jason in harm's way to get in done. He should have seen this coming ten miles away, but Chris' understanding didn't branch out that far. He didn't have the experience or the mind-set of a hard and fast criminal. Chris was a small-time grifter who just couldn't comprehend what he had done to cause such consequences. But through all his stupidity, he did have one thing going for him. He was smart enough to be scared – and dumb enough to show it. He didn't understand for a second how Jack Malone was going to use it.

_Well,_ Samantha thought, watching Jack. _Let the lesson begin._

Jack leaned in step closer. "Are you deaf? I said start talking!"

Chris' eyes were capital 'O's of terror. "I just – I can't – You don't think – It's … It's not – You don't –"

Samantha narrowed her eyes. She felt like she was listening to half a dozen different people. Chris sputtered and jumped from persona to persona, from theme to theme, as if his remaining clusters of brain cells were igniting, flaming, and then going out.

"Hey!" Jack's booming voice cut through his hysteria. "Look at me. Look at me, Brad."

He did.

"Shut your mouth for a second." Jack let only a second pass. "Now tell us where they are."

"I don't know! I just told you I have no idea where they went."

"You have no idea?" Jack shot back. "You tap this girl for the past couple months, spring her from jail, and take her and her three-year-old brother on a joy ride to the nearest drug run." Jack put out his hands. "What? Now all of a sudden you have temporary memory loss?"

Chris' face blanched. He didn't say a word, but Samantha could see the thought written across his face. _Holy shit, _Chris realized._ He knows._

Jack read his face just as clearly. "Oh, you thought we didn't know?"

Chris swallowed backward. Samantha thought that it might have been vomit. The kid had gone from looking sickly to terminal in a matter of seconds.

"You still don't want to talk to me?" Jack demanded. "Okay," Jack said in a strangely casual tone. "If you don't want to talk, let me try to fill things in for you. Here's what I think happened. You meet this girl, probably while delivering your little gift baskets. You go out a couple times. You sleep together – and maybe – just maybe you fall in love with her. Then what happens? The shit hits the fan. You're trying to get out of town, and all a sudden you get a telephone call. Jordan got pinched. She's in juvy. And _you_ know what it's like there, don't you, Brad?" Jack widened his eyes and nodded to Brad's terrified expression. "It's a tough place there. You know what happens when the staff isn't looking. You had the bruises to prove it. The guys there aren't to be fucked with, and you bet the girls aren't either. So while she's on the phone, you wait until the staff leaves the room – just like they always do. You cook up a real brilliant plan. You tell Jordan stories about how other guys you know got out. She picks the one she likes best. You pick a date – a time – midnight, and you promise that a car'll be waiting at the telephone booth at Birch Street."

Chris hunched over, his shoulders curled around him, which was sadly his only defense against the story.

Jack broke through it. "Any of that sound familiar?"

Samantha looked back and forth between Jack and Chris and felt the electricity between them.

Jack kept going. "From there you were just supposed to take off, right? Canada, Mexico, whichever border lets you over first, am I right?" Jack got so close, that Samantha thought his and Chris' nose would touch. "Except something went wrong, didn't it? Something didn't go according to plan. Someone got hurt."

Chris' face burned red now.

"Hot or cold, Brad? You let me know!" Jack raised his loud voice up a decibel. "What'd you do with her, Brad? Talk to me!"

Chris' voice boomed. "I didn't do a thing to her!"

"Oh yeah? Then where'd she go?"

"I don't know!"

"You don't know?" Jack shouted back in the kid's face. "Is that because you were paying too much attention to all the illegal DRUGS you were smuggling out of the harbor – or do you just have brain damage?"

Chris sputtered, much like he had before. "It's not – It's just –" Chris looked up at him, lost in the throes of confusion. "Christ, what do you WANT from me?"

"I want you to cut the crap and start answering my questions!"

"I already told you! I don't know where they went!" Even as Chris said it, he cut his eyes to the side.

Jack raised his game another level. "Yeah, you keep saying that, but I don't believe you. And you know what? I think the reason you're not telling me is because you killed her."

Chris' mouth dropped open.

Jack let it hang there for a second, before saying, "You gonna say something, Brad?"

Chris tried to form words, but it wasn't happening.

"Did you hear me? I think you killed her."

When Chris did speak, he shouted. "Are you insane!" His voice echoed off the cement walls. "I didn't do anything to her!"

Jack smirked cynically. "Oh, yeah. You never touched her, right?"

Samantha watched, without saying a word. Jack put the bait out there, and Chris in his stupidity was taking it.

"I didn't go like that!" Chris swore.

"Then what _did _it go like?" Jack demanded. "Start talking, Brad. What happened?"

If he'd been holding cards, Chris would have folded his hand. He was dead. He was dead, and he knew it. He hung his head and worked through the emotion on his face. "It got fucked up. It just got all fucked up. It just kept coming. It just kept coming, and I couldn't make it stop…"

_... "…__it's all fucked up…It's all fucked up," Chris swore to __Jordan__. They sat in his Oldsmobile by the telephone booth on __Birch Street_

_Jordan__ looked at him wide-eyed, still dressed in her prison-issued sweat-suit from Northeast Detention. "Chris," __Jordan__ said, taking him by the arm. "What're you talking about?"_

_"I didn't mean for it to happen." Chris clenched the steering wheel in a white-knuckle grip. He couldn't get a grip on anything else in his life, so he pressed his fingers against the steering wheel as hard as he could._

_Jordan__ shook him by the shoulder. "Chris. Talk to me. What happened?"_

_"She saw me."_

_"Who saw you?" __Jordan__ demanded. She looked around frantically. "The cops?"_

_"The nun," he said. "The nun at your orphanage. She saw me go in."_

_Jordan__'s hand went to cover her gaping mouth. Her face paled to white. "What?"_

_"It wasn't supposed to happen like that, but it did! I put in the security code. I used your key to get in. I went to get Jason, but she saw me. She saw the footprints." _

_Jordan__ barely whispered. "Oh my God. Chris, what did you do…?"_

_Chris swung his line of vision to face only __Jordan__. "There was nothing else to do, __Jordan__. I swear to God. I swear to God, I had no other choice. You have to believe me!"_

_Jordan__'s eyes slowly lowered. She stared at the cold metal gun sitting in between them. "You killed her?"_

_"I don't know."_

_"You KILLED her!"_

_"I don't know!" Chris shouted back._

_In the backseat, Jason shirked from his sleep and awoke from the noise. He looked up to his sister with sleep-ridden eyes. "Jor…?"_

_Jordan__ froze as she gazed upon her small three-year-old brother. She was torn from it all - from escaping from prison, seeing her rescuer, hearing about Sr. Rachel, and now reuniting with her brother. It was all too much. _

_In response, __Jordan__ did the only thing she could do. She shut down, and she focused only on Jason. She reached out, and Jason moved into her arms. She lifted him up over the console and held his warm body tightly against her own. "It's okay, baby," she whispered. She ran her hand over his full head of brownish-black hair. "It's okay, baby…Shh. It's okay."_

_Chris could barely hold himself together just watching her. "…__Jordan__?"_

_"Drive." She stared forward, unblinking. Her voice was barely audible. When Chris looked at her, she said again, "Just drive."_

_Without another word, Chris put the Oldsmobile into reverse and swung the car around in the opposite direction of the __Detention__Center__…_

"So we drove," Chris ended in a subdued voice. "We drove back to the apartment."

As Samantha listened, a barrage of thoughts fired through her mind. _Jason was with them the whole time. Chris assaulted Sr. Rachel at the orphanage. And __Jordan__ thought he killed Sr. Rachel. __Jordan__ thought he killed her._

Samantha turned and looked to Jack's face, but his expression did not change. Jack stood over Chris resolutely, as he had for the last twenty minutes. "You went to the apartment. Then what happened?"

Chris shrugged indolently. His eyes held the look of a man who just sold everything he ever owned, and now had nothing left to lose. "The rest you know."

Jack's face lost all its good humor. "You're gonna be a wiseass now?"

"Why not?" Chris said in a flat tone. "May as well while things are lookin' up."

Jack glared down upon him, disgusted. "You listen to me, you little punk. If what you're telling me is true, then _you're _the one who took Jason from the orphanage. That's kidnapping. _You're _the one who just tried to captain 50 pounds of dope across the Hudson in a motor boat. That's drug smuggling. You're the one who fucked Jordan when you met her. That's statutory rape-"

A large booming voice rose in Chris that neither Jack nor Samantha knew he possessed. "It wasn't just FUCKING, okay? I _never _raped her!" Chris, who also didn't seem to know he possessed such a voice, looked surprised himself. He swallowed back, before breathing out, "I love her…"

Jack rolled his eyes and looked to Samantha. _Oh, cue the violins,_ his look seemed to say. He turned back. "You love her?" Jack asked. "Let me get this straight. You love her? So in a moment of crystal clear thinking you decide to become a fugitive and take her and her three-year-old brother to a drug run. You do this with everyone you love?"

Chris' face scrunched. "No!"

"Love's a strong emotion, Brad," Jack said. "What else do you have strong feelings about? What else did that love make you do? Did you drop her in the Hudson?"

"No!" he swore.

"What about the truck of your car? Am I gonna find them there?"

"No!" Chris shouted in a high-pitched protest. "God… Christ…No!"

Jack focused his eyes on Chris. He stared for a long time, so long that even Samantha found the silence painful. For a moment, it seemed to Samantha that Jack could see through Chris, like a clear glass pane through him and everything beyond him. "You're wondering what led you to here," Jack said softly. "What started this downward spiral in your life."

Chris looked like he was about to break. Jack had his moments. This was one of them.

Jack continued, "What if I were to tell you that it's not as bad as you think it is?"

Defeated, Chris clenched his eyes shut and asked, "How is that possible?"

Jack pursed his lips. Then he said, "What if I were to tell you that Sr. Rachel woke up in the hospital with a headache?"

Chris' watery eyes stared up straight into Jack's. Jack's gaze held strong, and some of that hope – that hope that Chris thought he'd never feel again – trickled back. "Because she did," Jack said. "You didn't kill Sr. Rachel. You broke into her orphanage, and you knocked her unconscious. But nobody killed her. She's going to be fine."

(x)

Chris' entire body quaked upon hearing the news. Was it a lie? He looked up into Jack's eyes. No, he thought. No, he wasn't lying. Chris had seen people lie before, and this wasn't it.

He hadn't killed a nun. He hadn't killed Sr. Rachel. He had nothing else to hold onto, so he held onto that thought. He hadn't killed her. He hadn't killed her…

It occurred to Chris for the first time that he had not cried yet. No tears. No sorrow. Nothing. He didn't cry now either. He couldn't, and that scared him even more. He had gone numb. He was heart-numb, mind-numb, soul-numb. And the numbness, he realized, went a long way down and a long way back.

In front of him, the red and blue carousel of police sirens flashed against his face. He looked up, and instead of looking to Jack, he looked to the woman standing beside him. Chris stared at her for a good long minute. She was pretty, even if she was a cop.

Samantha stared back at him. Then she spoke to him for the first time. "If you want someone to find Jordan – and I think you do – you better start telling us everything you know."

Chris sighed against the cold. Samantha clearly saw a man and a boy fighting for control of the same face. "Help us find Jordan, Brad."

"My name is Chris," he whispered.

Beside him, Jack shifted in place. "You gonna talk to us, Chris?"

In answer to him, Chris took a deep breath, and finally he started to talk.


	66. On the Run

Mariel3: Thanks for all the reviews – all of them, but especially this one! What can I say? Every time I write Jack and Sam – I think of you. ;D

Anmodo: Thanks for all the feedback! And it's great to see you writing again!

JackofSpade: Hahaha, what can I say? Jack's hot, man, _especially _when he knows exactly what's goin down. How could Sam not feel the same?

I can't believe how long this has gotten. Thanks for sticking with me!

(x)

Once Chris agreed to cooperate with them, Samantha got a canister from one of the police cars and poured him a cup of coffee. Her therapist would call the coffee positive reinforcement, which was a lofty term for bribery. Samantha didn't like therapy because she didn't like to call things what they weren't. With all the deceitfulness surrounding the Coliandri case, she was only thankful that they might finally cut through some of the bullshit.

Chris took the Styrofoam cup from her and held it, child-like, in his hands. The bribery was working. He began to talk. "The plan was to finish the drop, get the cash, and get out of town. Move to Chicago…" Chris looked uneasy, hot, and uncomfortable at having to relive it again. "We cleared out the apartment. I got my deposit back, and we rolled out. It was done. We were ready to get it over with and get out of this place. Or at least, I thought we were..."

_... Chris directed one of his associates over to the boathouse. "Look, just keep it over there. And for shit's sake, keep your voices down, would ya?"_

_An African-American male around Chris' own age smacked his lips. He murmured something about Wonder-Bread and a Glock .45. Beside Chris, Jordan and Jason spoke in low tones. __Jordan__ bent down to Jason's height to see what he had to say._

_When he looked up, Chris caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He rushed over, his face drawn with anger. "Hey. Hey!" He grabbed the man by the arm._

_A mover in a black Jeep Hat angrily shook him off. "Yo, man. What's your problem?"_

_"My problem?"__ Chris echoed. He yanked the brick of weed out of the man's hands. "My problem is you dippin' into my goods, man. This is -my- supply. Now sod the fuck off."_

_He sneered. "Aw…white boy's got a fresh pair. When you grow balls, Grierson? Last night while I was bangin' your lil' white girl?"_

_Chris glared him down. "I grew 'em soon as you grew your pickpockets, asshole, alright? Get the fuck out of my face."_

_"You're not my problem."_

_"You're right. You want a problem? Cuz I got no issue getting __Gary__ involved with this."_

_At the mention of __Gary__'s name, the thug fell back a step. He glowered, his glare burning straight into Chris' eyes. "Better watch yourself, little man. We all got places here." The thug's eyes fixed onto __Jordan__ and then down at Jason. "You forget yours... bad things start to happen... You know what I'm sayin'?"_

_Chris' chest rose. For a moment, he looked like he was about to say something,- but then the thug turned his back on them. The thug meandered off, and distracted by other things, Chris let it go. He hurriedly began to check the load, making sure no one else had taken the liberty to shave off some weed for their own personal stash._

_Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Irritated, Chris turned around. "What?" he demanded. He looked down and stared into __Jordan__'s scared blue eyes._

_Jordan__ teeth tugged on her bottom lip. Looking around nervously, she whispered. "Chris, I gotta get out of here."_

_Chris sighed in a growl. "__Jordan__. I do not –need- this right now."_

_Jordan__ flinched at the response. "What?"_

_"This," Chris snapped. "I don't have time for this, alright?"_

_Jordan stood back, looking him up and down. "...You don't have -time- for this!"_

_Chris put his hands up, motioning for her to lower her voice. "What did we talk about? You want Johnny Law to find out what we've got goin' on here?"_

_Jordan blinked at him and was, for all intensive purposes, speechless._

_Chris took out his car keys. "Look, take Jason and wait in the car."_

_She pleaded with him. "I have to get out of here."_

_Chris tried to lead her away by the shoulder. "Right. Just go wait in the car, okay?"_

_She halted. "No."_

_Chris rolled his eyes. "__Jordan__, just-"_

_"No!" she said with force. "I am NOT staying here."_

_Chris cocked his head at her, perplexed. "Look, it's gonna be okay-"_

_"No, it's not," she stressed. "This is -not- okay."_

_Christ, she was freaking out. "Don't freak out, okay? Just calm down."_

_When he went to comfort her, she pushed his hands away from her. "No, I will NOT just calm down. I won't. This doesn't feel right."_

_Chris looked at her like she was crazy. "What are you -talking- about?"_

_"This doesn't feel right." Growing more and more agitated with every second she stood still, __Jordan__ swerved around. "I have to get out of here."_

_Chris grabbed her by the arm and swung her around. "__Jordan__. Get back here."_

_Jordan__ shoved him off. "Get off of me!"_

_"Jesus Christ! What the hell is the matter with you!" When he went for her, she let off a hair-raising screech. With fierce eyes, __Jordan__ reached over and grabbed a gun off the hood of the nearest car. She held the gun point-blank, straight at Chris' chest. _

_Chris immediately put up his hands. "Whoa...Whoa, whoa, whoa…"_

_Jordan__ glared at him. Her black hair hung down wildly in her face. In the wake of their argument, she was suddenly looking very unstable. Her hand shook as she pointed the gun outward. "Get AWAY from me."_

_Chris kept his hands up at either side of him. "Whoa, babe. Let's take it easy..."_

_"Give me the keys." Her other hand, still shaking, held outward. "Give them to me!"_

_Chris' face twisted. "Are you fuckin' kidding me?"  
"GIVE ME THE KEYS!"_

_Shocked into action, Chris threw the keys down on the ground. Jordan dove for them, snatched them up, and jumped to her feet, still holding the gun forward._

_"__Jordan__, are you crazy!" Chris demanded. "What the fuck are you –doing-?"_

_But Chris wasn't even certain that __Jordan__ heard him. She still had that crazed look in her eyes. "You get away from us." __Jordan__ reached down and clutched Jason's hand. "You get -away- from us."_

_By her side, Jason shivered in fear. " Jor? Jor, I'm scared."_

_Jordan__ kept her eyes trained on Chris. "It's okay, baby," she whispered. She backed up slowly, with Chris giving no advance. Once she had enough distance, she scooped Jason up into her arms, still pointing the gun outward. "I'm getting us out of here. If you follow me, I'll use it."_

_Chris look on, completely and utterly dumbfounded, as __Jordan__ ran for his car.__ "__Jordan__Jordan__!"…_

"She took off," Chris murmured in a hoarse tone. "I went to go after her, but when I turned the corner, she was already gone."

"Where did she go?" Jack demanded.

"I don't know."

"Enough with the 'I don't know's'!" Jack was losing his temper. "Tell me what you do know."

But he wasn't the only one. Anger bled into Chris' vision. "I know she stole my car! I know she _left _me! I know she has a gun! I know she said she'd use it!" Chris motioned with his hand in the direction she went. "What the fuck was I supposed to do? She took off!"

"Good for her," Jack interjected. Chris jerked back, stunned into silence. Jack spoke over any of Chris' attempts to talk. "She got away from you before you could potentially get her and her brother killed. You got her so scared, in fact, that she stole your _gun_ – to protect herself from these drug dealers _and_ from you. Now, she's out in the middle of New York City with a three-year-old and a _deadly weapon_."

Jack never touched him, but Chris looked like he'd just been punched in the stomach. "It wasn't supposed to be like this," he mumbled. "All I ever wanted was for us to be together."

Jack showed no sympathy. "What's the make of the car? Or don't you know that either?"

Chris appeared to be drained even of sarcasm. "A 1980 Dodge Aspen."

"What color?"

"Black."

Jack scribbled it down on a notepad, then said to Samantha, "Put out an APB. She's not far." Jack looked straight at Chris. Chris stared back, dumb as a bag of hammers. It took all of Jack's willpower not to slug Chris across the face on pure principle. He leaned down, so his breath hit Chris' face. "I find out anything's happened to this girl or her brother, I'm holding you personally responsible. And if I find out you lied to me, it'll be even worse." When Chris said nothing in his defense, Jack turned to Samantha. "Get the kid genius in custody. We're not through with him yet."

Samantha took Chris by the arm and handed him off to two FBI agents standing an arm's length away from him. "Get him booked downtown," Samantha told them. "We still have questions." When they led him away, she radioed in the car. "Calling all cars. I need an APB on a black 1980 Dodge Aspen. Repeat, a black 1980 Dodge Aspen."

At the same time, Jack picked up his phone and called Danny.


	67. Call and Answer

Anmodo: Wow, when I write I do feel compassion for the characters. I hadn't truly noticed that until you pointed it out. :) Thanks for the insight (as always!) Here's Jack & Danny at your request.

Mariel: Haha, glad you enjoyed it! I love getting into their minds. Danny's, Samantha's, Jack's – all of them! Sometimes it's hard to delegate who's mind I'll report first!

JackofSpade: Thanks! Your man Jack rocks, baby. And yes! Yes, I think the end is near! crosses fingers!

Thanks for the reviews, guys! And thanks to all the other readers out there! You rule.

(x)

Danny sunk into the tired orange and brown couch, still holding Rachel in his arms. They'd gone quiet, and that didn't surprise him. They were physically, emotionally, and mentally drained. Their energy had gone, and it had not been replaced.

Danny closed his eyes, not moving, but not fooling himself into thinking that sleep was possible. He glanced down at Rachel. It felt good to feel her, to feel a woman against him. It made him feel needed. It made him feel trusted. Rachel breathed gently, and Danny wondered if she was sleeping. He didn't ask though. If she was, he didn't want to wake her.

_Sleep, baby, sleep_, he thought. She would need her strength. God only knew what the morning might bring. Danny raised his wrist to check his watch. The hands told him it was just around 11:45 p.m. Danny snorted. Yeah, morning. It almost _was_ morning.

And all the while, Jordan and Jason were out there – out wherever missing children disappeared to. Danny frowned painfully, but no tears threatened. That was perhaps the scary part. He had no more tears to cry.

Danny's frown stayed in place. He thought of the children especially now in this room, where there wasn't even a sound to distract him. His mind felt weird, like a boat that had slipped its moorings. He felt tired and he had a queasy, thumping headache. It felt like a hangover, except that Danny hadn't had a drink since last night.

It just didn't make sense. Even if Jordan and Jason _were _dead, they should have at least found bodies by now. Jack had the FBI, NYPD, the SWAT team – everyone but the CIA and Secret Service working the case.

And what had it gotten them? Lots of _preguntas_ Not many answers.

Maybe Jordan and Jason were just one of those cases. Those cases that never closed, never resolved, and stayed dead-locked away with leads that led nowhere.

Danny sighed hard. Maybe they were alive. Maybe they were dead. Or maybe someone was out there, still hurting them. At the suggestion Danny's imagination did its worst. Jordan and Jason appeared behind his eyes, crying out for help and contorted by horrible scenes. A barrage of images – demented figures, torn limbs, naked bodies and worse – gripped him, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Danny breath quickened, and he mentally muscled the gruesome slideshow back. The images attacked him before, but the faces had never been so familiar. He forced the memories away, back in the dark corners of his mind where he kept every other terrible thought and image his body couldn't take.

There were so many, he thought miserably. So many and the years just brought on more. Danny tried desperately to gain control, but it wasn't happening. Without permission, Jordan and Jason's faces floated back with persistence.

_Am I losing my mind? _He wondered. _Is this the way it happens, the way it feels, when you have a nervous breakdown?_

Then it anchored him. A single word in his own voice. **No**.

Danny shook himself from his reverie. He listened to himself. _You can't break down. Open your eyes._

Danny opened them. He saw Rachel, lying peacefully in his arms.

_You can't break down because –she- needs you._

His mind seized onto this idea the way a shipwreck victim seizes upon a piece of wreckage. Danny waited a moment. And his breathing steadied. He couldn't quit now, he realized. He had to pull himself together. He could get through this. _They _could get through this. They had to for Jordan and Jason's sake. If they didn't keep looking, no one would.

"It's okay." Rachel whispered against his chest.

Rachel's voice brought him back. With her body so close to his own, she must have felt him growing upset.

"It's okay," she repeated. "I'm thinking of them, too."

Despite everything, Danny smiled. He squeezed his arm around her waist. "I was thinking of them," he admitted, surprised by the evenness of his voice. "…And I was thinking of someone else."

Rachel looked up and arched her neck towards him. Danny's dark eyes gave away nothing, but after a moment, she understood.

Slowly, softly, Rachel's hand touched Danny's check. "I was, too."

Danny looked down upon her chestnut hair, her flushed cheeks, her warm brown eyes, and lastly, upon her lips. Danny drew in a hurried breath. Rachel drew the same.

Danny's body propelled him. For once, he didn't care what it meant for them. All the uncertainty surrounding their relationship – which had at one point been so important – was now not important at all. He closed his eyes, and he leaned down to kiss her.

His cell phone shrilled.

Danny and Rachel both jumped. They looked at each other, their lips only inches apart. Danny looked down at his side. His cell phone rung again insistently. Without instruction, Rachel moved to the side, and Danny got up from the couch.

Groggy, shaken, Danny stared at the caller ID. It was Jack. He picked it up. "Agent Taylor."

"Danny." Jack paused, as if he were choosing his words carefully. "We've made some progress."

"Just tell me, Jack."

"Okay. We found Jordan's boyfriend. He's a twenty-year-old white male. His name is Chris Grierson. We have him in custody."

"What does he know?" Danny demanded. "Did he do anything to her?"

"We interrogated him." From there, Jack told him everything. He told Danny about Grierson breaking into St. Luke's orphanage, how Grierson and Jordan orchestrated Jason's kidnapping, and how Chris picked up Jordan outside the detention center. Jack told Danny about the car and the drug bust at the Hudson boathouse. Danny listened intently as Jack finally said, "Jordan never read about what happened to Sr. Rachel. She only heard what happened from Chris, and right now, she thinks that Chris killed Sr. Rachel when he broke into the orphanage."

Danny's pulse raced. He looked to Sr. Rachel, but she only stared back in confusion.

Jack continued. "We put out an ATB on the car, but we haven't got a location yet. We know that she's on the run and that she's armed."

"With what?"

"A .35 Magnum."

Danny's legs weakened underneath of him. A semi-automatic pistol. Shit. He felt fear twisting and turning inside him beneath his poker face. Throughout the day, the fear had gone through varying degrees of severity. Sometimes it was big and panicky, trampling everything in sight, a runaway stampede. Sometimes it was small and gnawing, ripping with sharp teeth. It was always with him.

But any fear he felt now he pushed into the background, along with the images of dead bodies and his doubts. "All this time – they've been with him. Son of a bitch…"

"That's what he tells us."

"Do you believe him?"

"Yes. I do."

"What about the gun? Did she fire it?"

"No."

"What about her affect? What did she look like when she grabbed it?"

"According to Chris she was pretty shook up. He used the word 'unstable'. Twice."

"When did this happen?"

"Less than an hour ago."

"Okay. So she's running," Danny realized aloud. _She's alive. They're alive. They were still alive… _"There's only so many places she can go. For the past year, all she's known is the Bronx."

"You think she'd move out?"

Danny closed his eyes. Then said, "No. No, she wouldn't leave the city. Not on her own. She's never driven outside the Bronx. She wouldn't chance it. Not with Jason."

"What if she's not running?"

The question Jack posed stopped Danny's mind in its tracks.

"What if she wanted to be found?" Jack spoke slowly for his benefit. "Where would she go if she wanted someone to find her?"

Across the ether, Danny heard Jack's unspoken question. _…Where would __Jordan__ go if she wanted –you- to find her?_

Locations fired through Danny's mind. Possible venues, somewhere, anywhere that she would go to…

If she wanted to be found…

All at once, Danny knew. "Send a squad to Pierce Avenue and William's Bridge Road. You know where it is."

Jack understood. "Okay. We'll meet you there."

"Okay." Danny shut off his phone. He swung his line of vision to face Rachel.

Rachel ran to him. "Danny, what happened?" she demanded.

"Jordan and Jason were seen less than an hour ago."

"Oh my God," she got out.

Somehow Danny kept his voice level. "I think I know where they are," he said. "But I need you to come with me."

"Danny-"

"They need you."

That was all it took. From there, Danny and Rachel rushed outside to his car. The Stratus roared off through the Bronx. Danny attached a police-issued siren to the hood of his car and disregarded all speed limits.

They were there in five minutes.


	68. 24 Hours Missing

Thanks to anmodo, rozzy, JackofSpade, Mariel, and politik for wonderful reviews. Thanks for sharing this with me. :)

(x)

The Grotto hadn't changed. At least for Jack it hadn't. Just like last year, cops cars covered the place, parked up the street and alongside the steep embankments. The FBI blocked off the roads with flares and sectioned off the area with crime scene tape. Lights still flashed from ambulances and cop cars. The hill still rose at a vertical angle, marked by mossy jagged steps that led up to the top. The earth was still muddy and wet underneath Jack's feet. For Jack Malone, being back at the Grotto was like falling into a time warp.

The moon came out from behind a thick cloud, and Jack pulled his trench coat tightly around himself to combat the wind. Jordan's stolen car had swerved messy ditches with its tires and now lay silent, parked just below the hill. To the left of the car familiar Catholic figures stood watchful, keeping their vigil over the Grotto. You had Jesus on the Crucifix. Joseph the Carpenter. There was the Angel Gabriel, St. Francis of Assisi, St. Jude, and if Jack's memory served him right, St. Teresa of the Roses.

At the top of the hill behind a thick grove of trees, in her own forest chapel was the Virgin Mary – and supposedly Jordan Coliandri, armed and dangerous.

_All the usual suspects, _Jack thought. _Back again._

The small chapel was constructed so that the faithful could pray in solitude, safely ensconced from the rest of Spanish Harlem. Which was great, except now it put the equivalent of a brick wall between Jack Malone and whatever the hell was happening inside.

Beside him, Frank spoke up. "You've got a call to make, Jack."

"Yeah, I know. And we're waiting."

"She's got a gun. She's got the kid."

"A kid who's her three-year-old brother."

Frank stood, watching him.

Jack growled out a sigh. He stared up at the top of the Grotto. He knew Danny would be there as soon as the laws of physics would allow, but that didn't mean he would be there in time. In Jack's experience shit like that had a way of happening, just when it was the last thing you needed. And if anything happened to those kids … Jack brought his wrist communicator up to his mouth. "Agent Albertson."

An older man in his mid-40's looked over from halfway up the hill. "Copy that."

"Go see what the situation is. Do not – I repeat – do not fire your weapon unless fired upon."

Albertson radioed back in a less enthusiastic voice. "Yes, sir." Gun drawn, Albertson slowly started up the hill.

No sooner had the words left his mouth then Jack heard the sound of a car squealing around the corner. Danny's Dodge Stratus skidded to a screeching halt outside the flares, and two figures sprung out from inside. Danny sprinted in a heavy run towards the scene with Sr. Rachel at his heels. His hot breath puffing into the wind, Danny ran to Jack's side – eyes wide and face ashen. "Where are they?" he demanded.

Jack gripped Danny's shoulder and pointed to the top of the hill. "Their footprints lead up there." When Danny bolted, Jack had a hold of him. "Danny. Danny, hold it. We-"

The words left Jack's mouth, and Danny stopped struggling. They both froze as Jason Coliandri walked out of the forest chapel and stared down from the top of the hill. This time Jack let go. Danny took off, ducking underneath the crime scene tape and dodging up the hill. Jack quickly radioed it in. "Let him go! He's FBI! Let him go!"

At the top of the hill, Albertson neared Jason. Jason's eyes darted around uncertainly, and for a moment, Jack thought that the kid might bolt back inside. But then… Jason's eyes locked onto Danny. Recognition stemmed across the child's face. "Danny!" he cried.

Never had Jack seen someone scale a hill so quickly. When he reached the top, Danny leaned down and scooped Jason up into his arms in one swift motion. Danny clung onto Jason, hugging his small body as tightly as he possibly could. "Jason…" In the dim light, tears could be seen in the corners of Danny's eyes. After a long minute, Danny held Jason back to look at him. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? Does anything hurt?"

Jason nodded, his face dirtied by the mud of the Grotto. "Yeah." He pointed to his leg and showed Danny. "It's bleeding."

Underneath Jason's overalls, Danny cringed at the cut on the child's leg. It was nasty, but it wasn't deep. He would be all right once they got him medical attention. "Okay, baby. It's okay," Danny comforted the child. "We're here now. It's gonna be okay." Danny walked back down the hill at a quick but careful pace with Jason's arms holding tight around his neck.

The moment Danny stepped outside the crime tape he was all but tackled by Sr. Rachel. She pressed herself against Danny and Jason, hugging both of them in her arms. "Oh, Jason." Her voice shook. "Oh, Jason, baby." Danny handed Jason to her, and Rachel held onto the child as if for dear life. "We were so worried about you, honey." Rachel's voice broke. "We were so worried…"

The child looked on, scared and confused, but relieved to be back in the arms of his caretakers. An EMT quickly joined them, wrapping a gray tweed blanket around the child. The EMT began talking to Jason and asking him questions as he led them to the ambulance.

As Jack took in the scene, he felt relief flood over him. However, it was not felt for long. A high-pitched scream cut through the wind and made the hairs on Jack's neck stand on end.

_Jordan._

Jack jutted forward out of reflex, and at the same time, Agent Albertson stumbled backwards out of the small forest chapel and almost took a spill right down the embankment.

Jack frowned. This was _not_ good. He shot a quick glance at Frank, who stood next to him.

"One down," Frank murmured.

Jack rolled his eyes. Oh, great, Frank could count. Jack watched the FBI agent dejectedly make his way down the hill and was thankful that Frank spared him the rest of the play-by-play.

Cheeks flushed and breathing hard, the older FBI agent stomped over while Jack hurried towards him. "What the hell happened?" Jack demanded.

The agent rounded and pointed to the hill. "She kicked me out!"

"Did I tell you to go in there?"

The agent stuttered angrily. "I-"

"What the hell did you think you were doing?"

"I was talking her down!"

"Yeah? Well, next time do a little less talking and a little more waiting for my orders." Jack frowned. "Does she still have the gun?"

"Yeah. She's swinging it around like a lunatic."

_Jesus. _"Anything else?"

"She's gone AWOL upstairs. She's not making any sense. It's like the wiring's shot. She's got a dead short between her head and her mouth."

Jack rolled his eyes at the analogy. "Thanks for the update." Jack looked to the other agents surrounding him. "Get Einstein out of here."

As he dismissed the FBI agent, Jack muttered to himself. He hadn't meant to be a dick, but hearing the description made his blood boil. The more Jack stood there, the less Jordan Coliandri became property of the state, and the more she became Danny's kid.

Danny.

Jack swerved around to get a look at the ambulance. Danny still sat with Jason and Sr. Rachel. But there was no way Danny hadn't heard that scream. Jack had only seconds before his agent would react. If past histories were any indication, Danny's reaction to Jordan's pain was quite a scary thing.

(x)

After much coaxing by the EMT, Rachel set Jason down on the edge of the ambulance. Danny and Rachel huddled around him. Rachel touched Jason's hair, unable to stop running her hands over his face and arms. "Are you hurt, baby?" Rachel asked.

Jason pointed to his leg, where a bandage now hugged his calf. "It was bleeding," Jason repeated.

"Does it still hurt?"

"Yeah."

Sr. Rachel leaned forward. "Do you want me to kiss it? Make it better?"

Jason nodded with wide eyes.

Sr. Rachel gently pulled back his jeans and smacked a kiss on his leg. Her tears wet the fabric. "There… that better?"

Jason reached out and Sr. Rachel once again held him in her arms. From over Rachel's shoulder, Jason looked to Danny. "Jordan's sick," he said. "She's not feeling good."

Danny, already pale, had heard her scream. Even as Jason sat safe and sound, his heart raced once more. Danny leaned down, so he was at eye level with Jason. "How'd she get sick?"

Jason pointed to his stomach. "Her tummy. Her tummy hurts."

Danny felt his own stomach turn. That could mean any number of things, but no time to dwell on that now. He tried to focus…

"Danny?" Jason ventured. "I'm scared."

In response, Danny rubbed Jason's shoulders. "I know. I know, buddy, but you don't need to be. We're here for you," Danny reassured him. "We're gonna take care of your sister, and we're going to take care of you. No one's gonna hurt you, okay?"

Jason nodded, crying a little. "Okay."

Danny hugged him once more. "Listen to me. I need you to do something for me. I need you to stay here with Sr. Rachel. Okay? You'll do that, right?"

Another nod. "Okay."

Danny kissed Jason on the top of his head and smiled for his benefit. "You're so good, Jay. You've been such a brave boy. I'm so, so proud of you." Danny squeezed Jason's shoulder. "You rest here with Sr. Rachel, and I'll go see your sister."

"Okay," Jason said.

Unable to stop himself, Danny kissed the boy on the head once more. He looked to Sr. Rachel. With red, bloodshot eyes, Sr. Rachel clung to Jason. Danny ran his hand over Rachel's head and whispered, "Are you okay?"

"Yes," she whispered back. It was a lie, but they both knew Danny needed to go.

"Okay. I'll be back."

Sr. Rachel reached out and grabbed his hand. Danny squeezed her hand, looked into her eyes, and then pulled away. Without looking back, Danny hurried to where Jack stood at the foot of the hill. "What's the situation?" he asked.

"She's armed, Danny. She's upset. She might be in shock. We don't know her mental state." After a short pause he said, "This isn't like last time."

Danny's eyes fixed solely upon the top of the hill. Without a word, he started up the steps.

Jack stopped him in his tracks.

Danny started. "Jack-"

"Give yourself a minute." Jack's voice was soft but firm.

Danny pressed out a sigh, and as he did, Jack set his hands on Danny's shoulders. "Give it a minute," he repeated.

It was the last thing Danny wanted to do, and the one thing that he needed the most. With much reluctance, Danny stopped and closed his eyes. He took in a deep breath of cold air and let it steam out. A wind came up from somewhere, stirring his hair, touching his face, pulling at him. Danny let it cool his brow. He let it clear his mind, and he let it calm his nerves.

Jack dropped his hands from Danny's shoulders and stood beside him. After only a minute, Danny opened his eyes.

"Are you ready for this?" Jack asked.

Danny met Jack's gaze. That was all the answer Jack needed.

Jack handed his agent a communicator. "Take this," he said. "And Danny?"

Danny looked to him.

"Be careful."

Danny stared up at the Grotto, where Jordan waited, gun in hand. He took one step and then another. A strong wind pushed back his coat from his legs and the hair from his forehead. The last dead leaves of fall crackled underfoot, winter-crisp. For so much of the day Danny had felt lost. He had felt nervous, uncertain, and afraid.

He was not afraid. Not any more.

Danny pulled the yellow crime scene tape up over his head, and he slowly walked to the top of the Grotto.


	69. Found

Onward. :) Thanks SO much for the reviews. Love you guys.

(x)

Once Danny reached the top of the Grotto, he lingered just outside the forest chapel. The long wispy branches of an overarching willow tree swayed back and forth, lightly rustling in the wind. Danny stood listening for sounds of a person on the other side: scuffling, breathing, crying, anything. He heard nothing.

The thought that followed was nearly unspeakable, but it had formed fully in his mind before he could push it away: _She might be dead_. It gave him a chill. He didn't like the thought, and he liked the first touch of returning fear even less.

No matter what lied on the other side, he had to go in there. He knew that as well as he knew his parents were buried in Homeland Cemetery. With new resolve, Danny plunged through the willows and into the chapel.

The scene he found next staggered him. Twenty feet in front of him, the statue of Our Lady of Guadelupe stood, her palms pressed together in prayer, her face worn by time and the elements. Her compassionate face gazed down, lighted by a small affixed spotlight. Wooden benches circled the Virgin Mary. On the pew furthest from the statue, Jordan Coliandri hunched over. Her black hair shielded her face not unlike the weeping willow shielding the chapel's entrance.

In the dim light, Danny looked her over. Jordan had raw scratches on her hands. Her tank-top was torn, and there a red scrape on her shoulder.

Danny had been here a year ago, his feet rooted in this exact place. Just like a year before, he felt a wave of pity for her. It was as if for a moment, Danny had gone back in time. To when Jordan and Jason weren't missing, where they had never been to the orphanage, where all that had transpired could be wiped away, like chalk from a blackboard…

The light, the wind, and the statue of Mary only added to the surreal feeling of the scene. Danny had so feverishly hoped to find them, that now he couldn't trust his eyes. He needed to know Jordan was in front of him. That it wasn't a dream…

He neared her. "Jordan…"

"I threw up," she said dully. Jordan had her hands propped above her knees like an old woman who had badly overestimated her capacity for exercise. As Danny neared, he could smell the high, sour stench of vomit.

"I sent Jason out." Jordan's voice scratched out hoarsely, but she didn't look up. Her body quaked and she turned something over in her hands. For the first time, the light caught the chrome metal of the Magnum, but that wasn't what the first thing Danny noticed. What he noticed was how close her fingers were to the trigger.

"I heard the sirens. Then I saw the lights." Even though she sat only an arm's length away from him, Jordan's voice sounded far away, far removed from all that had happened. "So I sent him out. He doesn't need to be here. I didn't want him to see this."

Danny still didn't know what 'this' was. The uncertainty scared him, but it was nothing compared to his relief upon hearing her speak. No matter what she had said, he'd heard her voice. She was alive, and that lent him courage enough to respond. "We got Jason down the steps. He's fine. He's safe," Danny said. "He's not in danger any more."

Jordan shook her head in protest. "I couldn't keep him safe."

Danny's breath hastened. He stared at the gun. It was shaking between Jordan's hands. Jordan's tears fell down upon its chrome. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this," she said.

"I know, baby," he whispered.

She sputtered as Chris had an hour before, "I just fucked everything up. It just got all fucked up."

Danny took a step closer. He could almost touch her now, but he kept his distance. His eyes stared at the gun, still clenched in her hands.

"You got away, Jordan," Danny said. "You took care of yourself. You took care of your brother."

At that Jordan raised her eyes, but they stared past him. They held a vacant, fixated cast Danny didn't like at all. "I took his car," she said. "He didn't understand. He didn't hear what Jason said."

Danny stood silently in the background, watching her and waiting with her. Jordan was relivingit … An empty gaze set into her blue eyes. She continued speaking in a muted, far off tone. "It was Jason. He-He changed it. He changed everything…"

_... It wasn't far from midnight, but the Hudson_ _Boathouse was alive with activity. Drug dealers stirred around Jordan, checking and re-checking shipments. Chris hurried with the movers, moving crates, checking his watch, and barking orders to anyone who would listen. Jordan_ _didn't move. She stood like a marble statue, her face expressionless and pallid._

_A little hand tugged at her jeans. "Jor?"_

_Jordan_ _looked down at Jason, still in her daze._

"_Uncle."_

"_What?"_

"_Uncle," Jason whispered. His eyes pleaded with hers. "I wanna stop. I wanna go home."_

_Jordan_ _knelt down to his height. "We will," she whispered back. "We just gotta stay here a little longer, okay? Chris is working."_

_Jason just stared back, fear present in his eyes._

_Distracted, Jordan_ _rubbed her brother's shoulder. "Don't worry. I'll protect you. And Chris. Chris'll protect you-" Jordan_ _stopped and blinked. She heard something, the sound of people arguing._

_Chris' voice cut in, overtop of everything else. "…You're right. You want a problem?" Chris stepped up to one of his lackeys. "Cuz I got no issue getting Gary_ _involved with this."_

_At the mention of Gary_'_s name, the thug fell back a step. He glowered, his glare burning straight into Chris' eyes. "Better watch yourself, little man. We all got places here." The thug's eyes fixed onto Jordan_ _and then down at Jason. "You forget yours... bad things start to happen... You know what I'm sayin'?"_

_Jordan_ _felt an intentional shiver roll down her spine. She cowered back behind Chris for protection. She waited for Chris to do something, to say something to make the threat go away._

_Chris just stood there. Then his eyes looked to one of the cars holding his drugs. When the thug moved away, Chris did, too, straight towards the nearest truck._

_Jordan_'_s lips parted, but she couldn't speak. Disoriented, Jordan_ _stared all around her. She saw the scars on the arms and legs of the movers. She saw the bricks of weed lined up in the back of trucks. She saw the knives. She saw the cold metal guns. For the first time, the film lifted, and Jordan_ _saw the Hudson_ _Boathouse for what it really was. _

_The Hudson_ _Boathouse wasn't Chris' work. It wasn't a job. It was a crime scene._

_When she looked down at Jason, she didn't see a three-year-old. She saw a three-year-old in the middle of a crime scene._

_Her three-year-old brother in the middle of a crime scene._

_Jordan_'_s breath came out in gasps. "What…" –What am I doing?-_

_Before Jordan_ _knew what was happening, she rushed forward. She chased after Chris and grabbed him by the shoulder._

_Chris turned around. "What?" he demanded irritably. _

_Jordan_ _teeth tugged on her bottom lip. Looking around nervously, she whispered, "Chris, I gotta get out of here."_

_Chris sighed in frustration. "Jordan. I do not –need- this right now."_

_Jordan_ _flinched at the response. "What?"_

"_This," Chris snapped. "I don't have time for this, alright?"_

_Jordan stood back, looking him up and down. "...You don't have -time- for this!"_

_Chris put his hands up, motioning for her to lower her voice. "What did we talk about? You want Johnny Law to find out what we've got goin' on here?"_

_Jordan_ _blinked at him. -What was he doing? What… What the fuck was he saying!-_

_Chris took out his car keys. "Look, take Jason and wait in the car."_

_Jordan_ _struggled to make him realize. "I have to get out of here."_

_Chris dismissed her. "Right. Just go wait in the car, okay?"_

_She halted. "No."_

_Chris rolled his eyes. "Jordan, just-"_

_"No!" she said with force. "I am NOT staying here."_

_Chris cocked his head at her, perplexed. "Look, it's gonna be okay-"_

_"No, it's not," she stressed. "This is -not- okay."_

_Jordan_ _didn't know what to do. She didn't know what to say. Neither did Chris apparently, because he only rebuked her. "Don't freak out, okay? Just calm down."_

_When he went to comfort her, she pushed his hands away from her. "No, I will NOT just calm down. I won't. This doesn't feel right."_

_Chris looked at her like she was crazy. "What are you -talking- about?"_

_"This doesn't feel right." Growing more and more agitated with every second she stood still, Jordan_ _swerved around. "I have to get out of here."_

_Chris grabbed her by the arm and swung her around. "Jordan. Get back here."_

_Jordan_ _shoved him off. "Get off of me!"_

_"Jesus Christ! What the hell is the matter with you!" When he went for her, she let off a hair-raising screech. With fierce eyes, Jordan_ _reached over and grabbed a gun off the hood of the nearest car. She held the gun point-blank, straight at Chris' chest. _

_Chris immediately put up his hands. "Whoa...Whoa, whoa, whoa…"_

_Jordan_ _glared at him. Her black hair hung down wildly in her face. Her hand shook as she pointed the gun outward. She spoke in the soft, but menacing tone of a killer. "Get AWAY from me."_

_Chris kept his hands up at either side of him. "Whoa, babe. Let's take it easy..."_

"_Give me the keys." Her other hand, still shaking, held outward. "Give them to me!" …_

…Jordan's eyes fixed upon empty space. "I brought him here." Jordan swallowed back tears. "When Chris walked away, all I could hear was you talking about Jason, about how he was going to hear about what I did someday. About how he was going to be like me.

"I don't want Jason to be like me," she got out between tears. Jordan hunched over. She pressed her forehead against the cold side of the Magnum. "I don't want him to be here. I don't want him to ever be here."

Never in his life had Danny wanted to comfort someone more, but he didn't dare touch her. He couldn't chance startling her. If that gun went off…

"He couldn't protect us. ... I loved him, Danny," she said. "I loved him so much."

"Jordan-"

"But he's weak," Jordan got out. "He was so fucking weak…"

Danny had seen this happen before. Her thoughts weren't fitting together. She could barely get control of her voice, let alone her shaking hands. Jordan was in the middle of a meltdown.

"I didn't mean to do it," Jordan cried. "I never meant to kill her."

_Rachel._

Jordan lifted her head. "I want to go back," she said. "But I can't. I can't take it back. No matter what I do -it's over."


	70. Midnight Rescue

This chapter is out. It's down on paper, and I can't believe it. THANK YOU for the reviews. Thanks for sticking with me. :) I can't tell you how much I appreciate your time and reading eyes. Enjoy, everybody! Let me know what you think.

(x)

Danny finally spoke. "What's over?" Jordan's head jerked upward. "Your life?"

Jordan cut her eyes away from him just as quickly. "It doesn't matter-"

"It does matter," Danny argued. "It does matter if your life's over. Because right now it's not over." Danny pointed to the gun in her hands. "Your life's only over if you pull that trigger."

Jordan fixed her gaze upon the gun in her hands. She was a beaten thing, used to running from the punchings and pummelings of fate and of her own inventions. Jordan stared at the gun, squinting hard. Jordan was looking at death now. Danny knew that. He didn't know what to say to avert it this time, but truthfully his words could only have so much effect. In the end, it was up to her.

"Your life matters to Jason," Danny said. "It matters to me, and it matters to Sr. Rachel."

Jordan glared down coldly. "Rachel's dead."

Danny whispered, "No, she's not."

"Yes, she is," Jordan seethed, glowering. "Chris told me. He already told me."

"Chris was wrong."

Jordan shot up to her feet, the gun still clenched in her hand. "You're lying!"

"Why would I lie?" Danny challenged.

Jordan's lips quavered as they sputtered for answers. "Because it's a trick. You're trying to trick me."

Danny spoke quietly but with great firmness. "No tricks, Jordan. Not from me or Chris or anyone else. Not any more."

"No," she argued. "No, I don't believe you."

Silence hung stagnant in the air, and Danny felt the cold air pressing in and out of his lungs. How could he do this? How could he do this _without_ re-traumatizing her – without destroying all they had built – without that gun firing off in her hand?

…Without ending her life?

They stood with the wooden pew equidistant between them. In a careful motion, Danny pointed to the entrance of the Grotto. "Jordan. I want you to see something."

Jordan violently shook her head back and forth in protest. "No." Her dirty fingernails scratched persistently at her arm, raw from the cold. "No, it's a trick."

"It's not a trick," Danny said. "You need to see this for yourself."

"No. You're just trying to get me to go down the hill." She pointed with a shaking hand. "You're just trying to get me down."

"If I wanted to arrest you, I'd have done it by now, Jordan."

"I don't believe you. You're a cop."

"I'm your friend," Danny swore. "I was your friend here last year. I was a friend to you and Jason at the orphanage. I was your friend whenever you called me. I wasn't a cop, Jordan. A cop was the last thing you needed. So I was your friend." When he said it out loud he felt better. It became easier to tell the truth, and truth-telling was the most important thing now.

Jordan stared mutely at the entrance, not budging an inch, but not running either.

Danny's voice cracked. "And I still am. But right now I need you to trust me."

Jordan looked up uncertainly into his eyes. "Danny…"

Danny stared straight back. He held out his hand. "Trust me."

Jordan looked at him for a long time, wagering, judging. She fought it. She didn't want to feel it. She didn't want to feel _anything. _It hurt too much to feel. But as she stood there staring at him, she gave in to the thoughts and feelings she had been trying to escape for so long. Through his eyes, she saw their history. The scenes appeared in her mind; they were clear and connected for the first time. Her mind reeled back in time. She was twelve. Danny gazed at her sympathetically from across the room, as police gathered evidence on her father's death. At fifteen, she saw him coming in after his partner, finding her alone in the apartment with Jason. She saw him chasing after her, following her here – to _this _place – to the Grotto in Spanish Harlem. He talked to her about how he didn't know her. He didn't know what she was going through, but he wanted to help…

…_He smiled at her, as though they were in the middle of an afternoon picnic, instead of a crime scene. "My name's Danny. What's yours?"_

_When she felt she could talk without a shiver in her voice, she said, "Jordan."_

"_That's a pretty name." He cocked his head to the side. " Do you know where it comes from?"_

_Honestly, she didn't. "No."_

"_You're named after a famous river in Asia. Back in ancient times, before you or me, the Jordan River_ _was a big deal. People would come from miles around to see it. They still do. Miracles took place there a long time ago."_

_Jordan estimated him, still uncertain as to what to think of this man who'd come to speak with her. She held Jason – just a baby then – protectively in her arms._

_Danny bent down to her height. He spoke to her in a comforting tone. "Do you know why I'm here, Jordan?"_

"_You're here to take me away."_

_Danny shook his head. "No. I'm here to make sure you and your brother stay safe. That's my job. See, I want you get out of this okay. You've got a lot to do. Like seeing that river you were named after…"_

_He spoke to her of all sorts of things – important and inconsequential – with nothing but compassion in his voice. Finally, at one point, he leveled with her. "Jordan, I may not be able to fully understand what you've been through, but I've had my share of personal pain. I see plenty of pain in you. The only difference between yours and mine is how it got there."…_

He asked her to come down to the bottom of the Grotto, to work things out with him. Danny told her that he would take care of her. From there, all was history for Jordan. She met Sr. Rachel. She met Bryce. She met Chris. Through it all, Danny had been there. Their history hurt. It was ugly, and it was complicated. But it was there.

It was present, just like Danny was now. Just like he promised. He was holding out his hand, asking him to trust her.

Jordan had been let down by trust too many times. She thought she trusted her parents, and they abandoned her. She thought she trusted Sr. Rachel. She thought she trusted Chris, and he killed Sr. Rachel and left her and Jason alone. She hadn't been sure if she could trust any one ever again. The personal pain had been too fresh, too close to home.

Now, the pain was with her more than ever, but something changed. She remembered Danny sitting with her on a bench outside the church. Leaves blew around them. Danny's dark hair pushed back in the breeze.

"_It's easy to fall into old habits…" He had a far off look in his eye. "But it's never too late to change."…_

As she stood in the Grotto, Jordan's lips felt curiously cold. A cold wind pushed back her long hair. She was not even aware of the tears streaming down her cheeks. Carefully, cautiously, she put out her hand.

Danny took it. Her small hand folded into his, warm and secure. He led her, gently, his other hand at her waist. They walked together until Jordan stood at the top of the Grotto just outside the entrance. Beside her Danny raised his arm to brush the soft willow branches aside.

Jordan looked up at him questioningly. Danny eased her into the light. "There," he said. "Look right down there…" He bent down beside her and pointed with his hand to the bottom of the Grotto.

Jordan looked around, trying to find what he was wanted her to see. She saw the flashing lights of police cars. She saw men and women from the NYPD and FBI. She saw yellow crime scene tape, an ambulance…

Danny repeated. "There."

Jordan squinted, focusing on the ambulance. She saw her brother, wrapped in a blanket, being attended to by a man from the hospital and …

_Sr. Rachel._

Jordan froze. Her mouth parted open, empty of words. _No. No, it was impossible. She…_

She was alive. She was moving and touching Jason's hair. She was breathing. She…

"She…" Jordan could feel the tears. They pulsed from her eyes. "She's…"

"She's fine," Danny whispered by her ear. "She's just fine."

Jordan felt a cry building up in her throat. She couldn't hold back. A sobbing, breaking cry welled up and broke from her lips. Her cry echoed throughout the Grotto, and Jordan collapsed downward.

Danny caught her. Jordan turned and clutched her arms around Danny. She dropped the gun, and it clattered loudly onto the ground. In the middle of the Grotto, Jordan held onto him. She cried and cried and cried.

Danny held strong. He stayed with her, supporting her and whispering that it would be okay. Whether Jordan believed him or not didn't matter. He knew that she would be okay. She was alive, and she was _safe _in his arms. For now, that was enough. For Danny that was all that mattered.


	71. Descent

Thanks to anmodo, Mariel, vampyfreak, Loopey-Laura, JackofSpade, and politik. And a special thanks to KellyD who sent me a long review for this story. :D I have yet to send you a proper email, but even if it takes me awhile, I'll always get around to it. ;) (Like this story…)

(x)

Danny led Jordan back to the wooden benches. Once seated there, Jordan shuddered a long sigh, and she rested her head against Danny's t-shirt. The wind picked up and howled, and Danny placed his trench coat around her shoulders.

"Thanks," she murmured.

"You're welcome." After a few minutes, Danny glanced down at his watch and told her that he needed to make a call. Don't worry, he said. They wouldn't send up the S.W.A.T. team. He just needed to give them an update.

Jordan nodded that she understood, and Danny walked to the other side of the Grotto. He held up his communicator. "Hey. It's me."

Jordan stared forward blankly. She saw everything in a glossy, milky haze. Words and images drifted through her mind, but nothing connected. She felt shaken and lightheaded from crying. She couldn't feel everything there was to feel yet. There just wasn't room. In a daze, she turned half a face towards Danny.

He spoke to someone, informing them of the situation, reassuring them that he had things under control. He kept talking, but as Jordan stared at him, his words faded into the background. Danny and Jordan had been up in the Grotto for some time now, but Jordan hadn't really seen him. She hadn't seen him – really seen him – since the horrible interrogation at the police station.

Now she looked him over at her leisure. Danny stood with one hand holding the communicator, the other rested on his hip. He had two guns, his own and Jordan's, one strapped to his belt, the other in his sidearm. With his ruffled hair, Timberland boots, blue jeans, and five-o-clock shadow, Danny looked very much like an urban cowboy. His face was open and intelligent, but too careworn for someone his age.

Jordan snorted. Yeah. His age. How old was Danny? Late twenties? Early thirties? Jordan had never been able to coin it. She asked him once, and he'd grinned at her with that mysterious grin he had for such questions. "_As old as my legs. And a few months older than my teeth."_

Since then Jordan had spent more time wondering about his age than any sane human being probably should.

"…Alright." Danny's voice picked up. "We'll be down soon. …Okay. And Jack? Thanks."

Danny took his time walking back over to the bench. Once beside her, he turned off the communicator. He sat back down and ran his fingers through his hair.

Jordan found her voice. "How's Jason?"

"The EMTs are looking him over. They're gonna take him to the hospital, but they said he'd be fine."

For the moment, Jordan seemed satisfied with his answer. A frown worked onto her face. "They're going to arrest me."

"Yes," Danny said. "They will. Though I think right now they'll be more interested in what you've got on Bryce Layman and Chris Grierson than in anything else."

"They got Chris?"

Danny nodded. "They picked him up at the boathouse an hour or so ago."

Jordan felt her lips go dry. They got Chris at the drop. The drop she left to go and… The thought stopped.

Danny continued. "We arrested Bryce Layman earlier today. The FBI hasn't been…" He looked up, as if searching the night sky for the right word. "…gentle with him."

Jordan looked away and she realized – Danny knew. He knew about her escape from the Detention Center. He knew about the fight with Rachel. He knew that she worked for Bryce. That she was a runner. He knew about Chris.

He knew about everything.

"What's going to happen to him?"

"Layman'll be behind bars for the rest of his life, if he's lucky. He's in jail right now. You're someone who could keep him there."

"And Chris," Jordan said with deep concern in her voice. "What'll happen to him?"

Danny rubbed his cheek which was sandpapery with stubble. "That'll be up to the courts to decide." Jordan could feel him studying her face. "We'll worry about that later, okay?"

"I loved him, you know," Jordan said. "I really loved him. He was going to give me the moon."

They sat together in relative silence for the longest time. The thoughts, murky and elusive, slipped in and out of Jordan's mind. Every now and again, she had enough energy to pin one down and she would speak it. The words always came out in a shiver. "What am I going to tell her?"

Danny turned to Jordan. He knew instinctively that she meant Rachel. "What do you want to tell her?"

The words wrenched her lips apart and hurt her chest. "That I'm sorry. That I'm so sorry."

"Okay," he whispered. "Then tell her just like that."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"She'll never forgive me. Not after all I've done."

"Yes, she will."

"How do you know?"

"Just trust me." Danny closed his eyes and held her. "I just know, okay?"

Jordan buried her face back into Danny's chest, and he gripped her in a hug. "This is so hard," Jordan said.

"I know," Danny said. "I know it is. But we'll get through it."

The wind blew lightly around them, rustling the leaves on the willow branches. They sat, with Jordan staring into Danny's chest and Danny staring to the statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

"Do we have to go?" Jordan asked.

"Not yet," Danny said. "You take your time."

Jordan closed her eyes. He always let her take her time.

Jordan remembered shouting at Danny in the interrogation room at the NYPD, shouting about how he didn't understand her. She hadn't meant it then. She just hadn't known how to accept his help. There was nothing easy about what she struggled with, nothing at all, but perhaps that was the definition of a friend. Someone who stayed with you, even when it wasn't easy.

It hurt to think of all she'd put them through, and it would hurt more in the days and weeks ahead. But Jordan wasn't alone, and now she knew it. Jordan took her time, until finally she lifted her head up from Danny's embrace.

Danny sucked in a breath and gazed around. "It's cold out here," he remarked.

"Yeah."

Danny looked over his shoulder. The noises of squad cars, ambulances, police officers, and FBI agents could be heard behind him. "What do you think, chica?"

Jordan gazed out past the willow branches. "I think it's time to go."

Danny rubbed her shoulder. "Okay. From here we'll walk down to the bottom of the Grotto. We'll be met by police officers. I'll try to stay with you, but we might get separated. If we do, I need you to keep your cool." He held her shoulders in his hands. "I need you to trust that I'll get to you as soon as I can."

Jordan nodded. She seemed to be pulling herself together. "Okay."

"They're going to take your statement, and after that, they'll probably take you to the hospital to for a once-over…" Danny went over what would happen to her from there, preparing her for what would take place at the hospital, the FBI office, and beyond. At the end of the explanation, he said, "What do you say? You ready for this?"

A wavering smile crossed her face. "No."

"Yeah. Me either."

When they rose to their feet, Danny reached behind his belt and pulled out his handcuffs. "Here," he said, holding them out. "Put these on."

Jordan must have looked at him like he was crazy. Then he said, "It's alright. I trust you."

It was a good judgment on Danny's part. Jordan secured the handcuffs around her wrists, and when Danny checked them, they were tight and in place. He squeezed her hands. He shared a brave smile with Jordan, and they walked down the steps of the Grotto together.


	72. The Informants

Thanks for all the reviews! I'm taking time to wrap things up. I figure I went this long – may as well give it a proper ending. ;D Thanks again for reading!

Loopey-Laura: Thanks for all the support! Despite his devil-may-care attitude, Danny's got a heart of gold, man. ;)

Anmodo: lol That makes two of us. I am forever fascinated by Danny and the different facets of his personality. Thanks a lot, and man this story HAS taken forever. A lot longer than I planned 2 years ago, that's for sure.

Vampyfreak: Haha, I may not have updated soon, but sooner than usual, eh? ;)

Mariel: Here's another chapter "alright"-free! Thank you for reading and reading and reading :D

Rozzy: Haha, I'm gonna have to write you in PM. Thanks for all the time you spend reading and then reviewing!

JackofSpade: Jordan's come a long way. :) Thanks for the support!

Politik: Thanks for the review! Hopefully, this will help resolve things a little more! …

(x)

Later it would be impossible to say who saw them first, but in his heart Jack knew it was him. "There!" Jack shouted into the radio. "They're coming down! Repeat: They are coming down. Get a team and get them down!"

Scraped up but alive, Jordan Coliandri descended the steps of the Grotto, her face as pallid as a gravestone, her bloodshot eyes as wide as saucers. Beside her Danny held her protectively around the shoulder. Detectives from the NYPD and FBI agents hurried to their sides to escort them down.

Danny drove back the agents. He pushed forth a strong hand and told them to give him space. He insisted that she needed a doctor. Danny did not break his stride, and his hold on Jordan did not budge. Like it or not, the police officers and special agents parted a way for Danny Taylor, allowing him passage to the bottom of the hill.

Jack watched from where he stood, as if in a trance. The wind pushed back his gray hair. From across the way, Danny's eye caught his.

Jack gave the slightest nod, accompanied by the slightest smile.

Danny's strong gaze held Jack's for only a second. Then it broke, diverted by the chaos surrounding them. Danny elbowed his way to an ambulance, and awaiting EMTs ushered Jordan inside. Danny showed them his badge and began giving them orders. The EMTs nodded their understanding.

Vivian Johnson ran over to Jack's side. "Jack. Someone needs to go with them."

One simple command. "Go."

Vivian jogged over to where Danny stood. They quickly exchanged a few words, and Danny handed her his keys. Vivian nodded and sprinted to his car.

Sectioned off by crime scene tape, members of the press hurried to get Danny's statement. "Special Agent Taylor, this is the second time that a crime scene here has ended in rescue. Is this the same girl?"

"Agent Taylor, was this a suicide attempt?"

Danny brushed them off, as if they were no more important or detrimental than houseflies. He hurried into the ambulance, ignoring their questions and their calls for him to return.

"Agent Malone!" Detective Frank Sanders jogged over from the hill to Jack's side. He too watched as Danny ran to his car. "What are you doing? Aren't you going to stop him?"

Jack watched silently as the ambulance doors slammed shut. A few feet away, Vivian Johnson secured a siren to the top of Danny's car and trailed behind the ambulance. "No," Jack answered. He spoke into his communicator. "All frequencies, subject has been questioned and detained. Leave your posts and regroup at rendezvous point." He turned to Frank. "Jordan Coliandri's been arrested and is being processed."

The ambulance and the Stratus peeled around the corner and out of sight. "He did his job," Jack said to Frank. "We can get her statement later."

"And the press?" Frank asked.

Jack licked his lips. He lowered his communicator. "I think that's something our departments could do together."

Frank blinked in mild surprise.

Jack caught his eye. "If that's okay with you."

"Yeah," Frank said, his voice a whisper of shock. "Yeah. That's fine with me."

Jack nodded to the small group of reporters, who had huddled together in a corner by the crime scene tape. "Better hurry. You know how they hate to be kept waiting."

Frank slicked back his white hair with his hand and adjusted his trench coat. He walked towards the reporters slowly, preparing himself for the interview, still disbelieving that he would be the one to answer their questions.

Jack followed after Frank and watched with his crooked smile. Jack would man-handle the press and give them the FBI's official statement. Unlike Frank, Jack wouldn't linger. As always Jack was on a timeline, and he still had some unfinished business to attend to.

(x)

At the same time that Jordan and Danny reached the bottom of the Grotto, Martin Fitzgerald looked down at his watch. One 'o clock in the morning. Still no word. He wondered if Danny had made any progress with Jordan. He wondered how Jack was handling the situation, and he wondered how his team was coping.

Martin leaned against the wall in one of the tiny interrogation rooms at the main office. He marshaled his thoughts and brought himself back to the only situation within his control. Right now, he wondered what Chris Grierson was going to say in his defense, if anything.

Martin stood behind Chris as the boy sat across from Samantha Spade. Samantha handed paperwork to Chris Grierson, instructing him to fill out questions about his age, ethnicity, shoe size, etc. Standard operation procedure. Plus, it let Chris know just who was running the show, in case there was any doubt in his mind.

Chris obediently answered the questions, and when he was done, Samantha looked them over with mild interest.

After some silence, Chris spoke up. "I'm not a killer, you know."

Samantha looked up from the paperwork on the desk. "Have you ever killed anyone?"

Chris had to think before he answered. "No."

"Then no. I guess you're not. You'd have to kill someone to be a killer."

Chris nodded as if he'd heard some philosophical whimsy that put Socrates to shame. He'd never quite head it put that way. He always just figured that you had to be in the wrong place at the wrong time to be a killer. "So since I'm not a killer, we can cut a deal right?"

"Excuse me?"

"You know, you get the judge to give me immunity, if I choose to cooperate."

Samantha smirked up at Martin, before looking back at Chris. "Really? Did you see that on Judge Judy or Law and Order?"

Chris had seen it on Law and Order, but he kept that part to himself.

Martin stepped forward and leaned down in Chris' face. "Sounds to me like you're a bit too eager to rat someone out."

Samantha added. "Or maybe just rub someone out."

Chris stammered, as he had before with Jack. "It's not like that."

Samantha sat back in her chair. "Then what is it like, Chris?"

"I'm a little too old to go back to juvy." Desperation shimmered in his eyes. "And I'm a little too young to go into Federal. Know what I'm sayin'?"

Martin walked over so that he was standing on Samantha's side of the table. "I wouldn't want to get pounded by my new cellmate either, Chris," Martin said. "But I also wouldn't try to captain two tons of dope across the Hudson River at a boathouse. I guess that's where we're different."

Chris looked back and forth at the two agents' faces in confusion. "B-but you need me," he said. "How else are you going to get the big boys?"

Martin snickered and repeated 'the big boys'.

"Hey." Chris' voice boomed, and that caught Martin's attention. "If you're gonna laugh at me, you can forget it. I'm not gonna tell you a damned thing."

Samantha and Martin exchanged glances again, but the humor had gone from their eyes. They were all business now. Samantha turned back to Chris. "All right, Chris. Impress me. What can you tell us?"

"No way. I need an agreement." He added. "In writing."

Samantha blinked, and Chris took stock in the expression. She hadn't thought he had it in him. Well, good. He wanted her shocked. He needed whatever leverage he could get. Samantha leaned forward in his face. "You sure got greedy within the past couple hours."

"I can call a lawyer any time I like," Chris shot back. There it was. His trump card. Perhaps he'd played the card prematurely, but the move gave him nerve. Right now, he could use all he could get. "And you know it."

She couldn't believe it; Chris could read that much. But after a moment's deliberation and a look to her buddy, she decided to roll with it. "We'll draw up the documents. Of course, this all depends on what you give us and how helpful it becomes." After a pause, she said, "Let's hear it. Start talking."

After all his bravado, Chris' puffed chest deflated a little. He hesitated.

A small voice spoke up inside him. _Do you really want to do this? You know what they'll do when they find out. Your life will end in the trunk of a car or at the bottom of a river… or worse. _Even as Chris conjured up all the horrible deaths that awaited him, they were nothing compared to engaging in a 15-year sexual relationship with a hung cellmate named Bruno. Besides even if Chris could turn back, he had discovered it just a little too late. He found he was already talking.

"I worked for Bryce Layman when I was still in high school. I still did jobs for him here and there when the pay was good, even after I got out of juvy. That's how I met Jordan. That's how this all started…"

Chris told Samantha and Martin what he knew about Bryce, his associates, his schedules, and his warehouses. He told them about Gary and other aliases he went by. He gave them the names of every person he saw shake their hands or hand them a briefcase. Chris found himself quite expressive when provided with the right motivation. He never knew he could be so articulate. From the looks on their faces, the agents hadn't known it either. After some time, he let out a ragged breath and ran his hands through his hair.

"That's it," he said with a heavy heart. "That's all I've got."

"Well, this is very helpful." Samantha spoke slowly, as if she'd forgotten how to speak English. Inside, he figured she was searching his torrent of words for bullshit. For the first time in a long time, there was none to find.

Martin and Samantha explained that everything Chris said was being recorded on tape. He would need to sign documents verifying his statements. He would agree to speak in court. He would agree to identify the perpetrators in a court of law.

His eyes lifeless and empty, Chris' head lulled up and down in a nod.

When they left the room, Chris Grierson stared forward at his expression in the glass window of the interrogation room. Chris felt like crap in every way a person could feel like crap. He didn't feel like a drug dealer. He didn't feel like a criminal. He felt like a loser, and like every other emotion Chris had, it showed up on his face. The face that stared back repulsed him.

Alone in the interrogation room, his thoughts turned to Jordan. His girlfriend. The girl he'd planned to spend the rest of his life with. An image flashed, and he saw the death glare she sent him as she grabbed his gun. She backed away with Jason in tow. She told him not to follow her.

Chris hid his face in his hands. He was scared and terrified for Jordan, but underneath another voice was saying things like: _These things always happen to me. I never get a break. _And: _Why did this have to happen to me? How long will I be in this room? How long will I be in jail? _And most despicable of all: _Why did Jordan do this to me? Why couldn't she just have stayed in the fucking car?_

Chris hated that voice. He wished it would die a quick, nasty death, but it just went on and on.


	73. Better Late Than Never

Yes, it's a post! Coming months and months too late. I'm not happy about how long it's taken, but I AM happy to report that I have graduated with my Masters in Social Work. It was one of the best days of my life, even though it consumed nearly all my nights and days of 2006.

To all the fans who put up with my inconsistent posts - you rock. You are incredible.;) The title of this chapter is for you AND for the story. I think it sums things up well. Better late than never. ;)

(x)

The hospital waiting room stirred with more activity than Special Agent Vivian Johnson would have expected at half past one in the morning. Vivian watched doctors, nurses, and patients in mild interest as she shifted in an uncomfortable wooden chair. She was not alone. Sr. Rachel sat next to her, cradling Jason Coliandri in her lap. The hospital staff treated Jason first, due to the child's young age and Vivian and Danny's FBI influence. When Jason got back, he had shown off the bandage on his leg with pride and waited anxiously for his sister to come out of the emergency room. That had been a half hour ago. Now, Jason was fast asleep in Rachel's arms.

Vivian smiled at the child, then up at Sr. Rachel. "He's had a long day."

Sr. Rachel stared forward at the door that led out of the waiting room with a worried frown on her face. She gasped a breath and blinked. "What? I'm sorry. I must've gone somewhere else for a minute."

Vivian put a hand on Rachel's shoulder. "She'll be okay."

"I know," Rachel said. "In the ambulance, she looked like she didn't have any serious injuries. And Danny's with her." Rachel looked down at Jason, who continued to sleep silently. "She'll be okay."

"It shouldn't be too much longer. They were seen only a few minutes after you and Jason."

Rachel nodded. After a long moment, she said, "Thank you, for all you've done. For helping us to find them."

Then Vivian said what she so often did. "It's our job. It's what we do."

"No, it's more than that." Rachel struggled to put her thoughts into words. "I know which children get found-"

They were interrupted as the doors to the emergency room swung open, and Danny and Jordan walked into the waiting room. The doctors had bandages Jordan's forehead and both her arms. She looked exhausted, but she hurried toward Rachel. Rachel didn't even have a chance to put Jason down. The moment she rose to her feet, Jordan grabbed her and Jason in a tight hug.

Vivian watched as tears stung Jordan's eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered to Rachel.

Rachel bit her lip and hugged her back. "It's okay, sweetheart. It's going to be okay."

Jason awoke with a start and called out, "Jordan!" He turned and jumped into his sister's arms. Jordan caught him with an 'oof' and held him close.

"Hey, baby boy," she cooed softly.

Danny put a hand on Rachel and then Jordan's shoulders. He gazed down upon them lovingly. As Vivian looked on, she caught Danny's eye for a brief moment. The two smiled to each other. In that moment, Vivian thought she understood what Rachel had been trying to say. Danny found Jason and Jordan through his love for them, and Danny's team helped find them through their love for him. In many ways, Jordan and Jason were not the lucky ones, but they were lucky in the friendship that they had with Danny Taylor.

Behind her, two other FBI agents stepped forward from where they had been waiting out in the hallway. They were coming to escort Jordan out of the hospital. Vivian held up a hand. "Give them another minute."

The two FBI agents followed her order. But after another minute passed, Danny Taylor and the two agents took Jordan into custody. They needed Jordan's statement and hopefully, her confession. Afterwards, she would be held in detention until her court date. Danny would help her where he could; Vivian was certain of that. She intended to do the same, but for now, she focused on Rachel and Jason. Rachel held Jason back, as they said their good-byes.

"Wh-where's Jordan going?" Jason asked anxiously.

Rachel scooped him up in her arms. "She's going back to that place I told you about. She'll be safe there, Jason. She'll come see you as soon as she can. I promise."

Vivian led Rachel and Jason out of the waiting room. "Danny will take care of her, Jason," Vivian said. "If you come with me, I'll take you both back home." They followed her out to her car, and Vivian drove them back to the orphanage.

(x)

Outside of the interrogation room at FBI headquarters, Samantha sifted through a file given to her by Agent Amelia Gallagher. Amelia had run the background check on Michael Aderes from Bangor, Maine.

"He's their uncle, all right," Amelia reported.

Samantha took the papers. "We figured he was telling the truth, but..."

"But, you know as well as I do that you can never-"

"Be too sure. Right?"

"As rain."

Samantha smiled. "Thanks, Amelia."

Amelia nodded to the one-way glass mirror, where Michael Aderes sat by himself waiting for answers. "I'll let you and Fitzgerald take it from here."

"You heading out?"

"Yeah. In fact, I _was_ heading out…" Amelia held up her watch as she started down the hallway. "Two hours ago."

Samantha smirked as Amelia left for the night. "We've all been there."

At the same time that Amelia walked out, Martin rounded the corner. "Hey," he called to Samantha.

Samantha held up the confirmation report. "Sources are in. They have an uncle. Mr. Michael Aderes, attorney at law, is exactly who he says he is."

"Good to hear. Are you ready to go in?"

"Yeah. I think we've kept him waiting long enough."

(x)

Martin and Samantha entered the interrogation room and took their seats across from Michael Aderes.

"Hello, Mr. Aderes. I'm Special Agent Fitzgerald. This is Special Agent Spade. We've been working to find Jordan and Jason since early this morning. They've been found, as I'm sure you've heard. We're sorry to have kept you waiting so long."

Despite the late hour, Michael Aderes was kept awake by his pumping adrenaline. "Are they all right? Are they in a safe place?"

Samantha nodded. "We just received a call from one of our field agents. Special Agent Taylor found Jordan and Jason on the run in the South Bronx. They were taken into custody, and then taken to the hospital-"

"The hospital?" Michael erupted. "I thought you told me they were fine!"

Samantha put her hand up before continuing. "Yes, and the hospital confirmed their safety. Both Jordan and Jason were treated once they reached the hospital. They had no serious injuries, and they were sent away with a clean bill of health."

"Where are they?" Michael demanded.

Martin answered, "Jason and his caretaker, Sr. Rachel Corrione, were escorted by Special Agent Johnson to St. Luke's Orphanage in the South Bronx. Jordan has been returned to Northeast Detention Center. Agent Taylor also reported that they arrived there safely."

Michael sat up straighter in his seat the name of the detention center. "Northeast?"

Martin answered, "Yes-"

"I thought you told me that was the place she ran away from! Now you're sending her back?"

Martin looked to the side and licked his lips. It had been a long day for all of them, but his patience only stretched so far. "Look, Mr. Aderes, I understand your frustration and I apologize that it's taken this long for us to receive information. But you need to understand that we've been doing everything in our power to ensure Jordan and Jason's safety. We have been working tirelessly for the past twenty-four hours to make sure that they were found as quickly as possible. I can't tell the future, but I can tell you that right now, they are safer than they have been in months due to our involvement." Martin stopped and got a hold of himself. He softened his voice. "We intend to keep doing everything we can for them and for you, but I need you to lower your voice if we're going to continue this conversation."

Michael's large chest pent up, and for a moment, Martin was certain the man was going to deck him across the face. Instead, Michael expelled a long, heavy sigh. Michael closed his eyes and ran both hands over his crew-cut. Moments before, his voice had been booming and oppressive. Now, his voice was remarkable only for its calmness. "When can I see them?" he asked.

Samantha leaned forward and said, "As soon as Jordan's processed into the system, you should be able to see her, perhaps as early as tomorrow morning. As far as Jason's concerned, I'm sure that as soon as Sr. Rachel Corrione is contacted, you could see him at St. Luke's."

Upon hearing the news, his anger seemed to melt away. His voice held disbelief. "I could see him in the morning?"

"Yes," Samantha said.

"And you can direct me to where they are?"

"Yes," she said again.

A wave of relief washed over him. "Thank you." He sighed again and ran his hands over his face. "Lord, I wish their mother was here…" Michael looked to Samantha and Martin with weary eyes. "How long has it been since… since Olivia left? Do you know?"

"According to Jordan," Samantha said, "she left approximately a year ago. Her whereabouts are unknown."

"And they've been in the Bronx? All this time?"

"That seems to be the case," Martin answered.

"And no one's been looking for them?"

Martin tried, but couldn't hold back the contempt in his voice. "Just you. And the FBI."

Michael must have realized that his sarcasm was not helping his situation, because he apologized, "I'm sorry. I've just been looking for them for so long."

Samantha offered him a sympathetic gaze. "How long has it been since you've seen them?"

"Three years and six months." He patted his lips and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

Martin looked to Samantha, who said, "That's fine." Martin pushed the ash tray towards him.

Michael took out a cigarette from his pack of Pall Mall's and lit up. "The last time I heard from them was two Christmases ago, when they were living in New Jersey. Olivia and I used to be close when we were growing up, but once Olivia married Joe, she got more and more distant. She didn't send cards. She almost never answered phone messages. Hell, I didn't even know that she was having another baby, until she called to tell me that she'd already given birth to Jason. She didn't keep in touch with us, but we thought she'd at least tell us if she moved." Michael shook his head. "But Olivia didn't say a word. I didn't even know they were gone, until I started getting mail forwarded back to me from their address. Then, I didn't even know Joe passed away until I read it in the newspapers. After that… well, I wasn't going to just sit there."

Martin began to understand. "That's when you tried to find them."

Michael nodded. "That's when I decided it was enough. When she wasn't answering her phone, I was worried. But I could always drive down and make a visit, or call their house until Jordan picked up. When they moved after Joe died, I knew it was time to take action."

"Did you go to the police?"

"No. No, I didn't get the law involved." He looked between Martin and Samantha. "I'm a defense attorney, and I've seen what can happen to people and to their families when they're in trouble. If Joe had a drug problem, it was possible that Olivia did, too. I wanted to help them, but I didn't want my little sister to go to jail. If you can understand that."

Martin didn't, but he decided that it wasn't in their best interest to say so. "So you hired private detectives."

"Private detectives. Other lawyers. Contacts outside of the law. Anyone that I could get to help. For an entire year, no one found anything." Michael pulled back his sports jacket and took out a wrinkled computer print-out. "Then one day, out of the blue, I got this fax at my office."

Martin took it from him and held the paper up so Samantha could see. Michael explained, "Someone finally made contact."

Martin looked to Samantha. "They never found them," Martin said, "because Jordan and Jason were never involved with the law."

Samantha nodded her understanding. "You only had people involved in the criminal justice system, and of course, they were never on record."

Michael pointed to the papers. "When Jordan was caught by the NYPD for drug possession, I got this fax. The other lawyers in my firm have connections in New York. One of their contacts must have seen her name and gotten back to us. The people at my office put me on a plane and sent me here to bring them home." Michael frowned. "It's sad that it took a criminal charge for me to find them, but I'm grateful all the same."

Samantha smiled slightly. "You have a supportive team."

"They stuck by me. We've worked for an entire year." Michael shivered involuntarily, both chilled at the thought of losing them and the thrill of finding his family. "It still hasn't sunk in. That I'm going to see my niece and my nephew tomorrow. That I'll be able to talk to them face to face. God, I can only imagine how much Jason's grown…"

Martin handed Michael their file. "These include the information we have on Jordan and Jason. It has their locations. There's a number to call at Northeast Detention and a number at the orphanage. We'll call them, too, so that they'll expect you."

Michael looked through the paperwork intently, before saying, "Thank you."

Martin smiled. "I'm sure Jordan will be happy to see her uncle, who also just happens to be a lawyer."

Michael released a sigh. "And you have no idea how happy I'll be to see her safe, even if it is in a detention center. We'll talk tomorrow. I'll see if we can sort through some of the mess she's stepped in."

Samantha handed him back the computer print-out. "They're lucky to have an uncle who didn't give up on them."

"Well, I had some help." He winked to Samantha and managed to smile at Martin. "I apologize if I was out of control before. I've become a little impatient after not hearing from them in two years."

That at least, Martin could understand. "I think it's been a long day for all of us."

"Yeah. My voice gets loud when I get that way. Serves me well in the courtroom." He looked sheepishly to Samantha. "Hope it didn't scare you."

Samantha put up her hands as she stood to leave the room. "Not at all. It was impressive."

Michael chuckled and rose to his feet. At the same time, Martin handed him their card. "Give us a call in the morning, and the office will be touch with you. I can't promise you'll be directed to Agent Spade or myself, but I have a feeling Agent Taylor will want to talk to you."

Michael took the card and gazed down at it. "Okay. Thank you. I'll give the office a call first thing tomorrow."

They walked Michael Aderes down to the lobby and said their good nights. When they were back in the elevator, Martin ran a hand over his face. "Can you believe that?"

"Jordan wanted someone to find her," Samantha said. "I guess someone did."

"Yeah. Better late than never." When the elevator reached their floor, Martin said, "I wonder what Danny'll say."

Samantha shook her head, unable to wrap her head around what Danny's reaction might be given the hour. "I can't think about that now. That's all for tomorrow."

Martin held the door open for Samantha, and they entered back into the office. Martin walked over to Jack's office to hand in their paperwork, but found it locked. He turned back to Samantha. "Where's Jack?"

"At the NYPD."

Just like that, Martin was reminded of his actions earlier that day, and his guilt returned ten-fold. He murmured, mostly to himself, "Right. Negotiating."


	74. Hidden Agendas

Mariel & Anmodo! It's awesome to see you back. :) Thanks for reviewing. Whether I write it now or later, I should inform all writers and readers that I have an ending, which is amazing within itself. Thanks for keeping up with this! And now, back to Jack...

(x)

Jack gazed around the offices of the NYPD and shook his head. _Back again, _he thought. There was a reason he joined the FBI and not the NYPD. Part of that reason was so he wouldn't have to be at the NYPD's office at two 'o clock in the morning.

"He's back from the hospital."

Jack turned around. Detective Frank Sanders had bags under his eyes, and Jack was sure that he had a pair to match. "Really? Guess he wasn't on his death bed after all."

"That's not the best of it."

Jack raised his eyebrows.

"Our boy got a lawyer."

"You're kidding me. At two in the morning?"

"Apparently, his last one got a replacement. And fast."

"That might be good for us."

Frank arched an eyebrow at Jack. "That bullet wound getting to you, Jack? I heard they gave you Vicodin."

"I haven't filled the prescription." He ignored the throbbing in his arm, for the millionth time that day and said, "A lawyer's good for us, because if he's worth anything, he'll get Layman to cop a plea."

"Yeah. If he _is_ any good," Frank murmured.

Jack held back his sarcastic remarks, but it took real effort. "All right. I'm gonna go take care of this."

Frank headed back inside his office. "We'll see you in a minute."

Jack Malone opened the door to the interrogation room. Bryce sat across from him, his arm in a sling, bruises on his body, and a bandage over his left eye. Jack kept a straight face, but it was difficult upon seeing just how badly Danny fucked up Bryce's face.

Jack looked away from Bryce, to see a pretty woman with dark hair. She nodded politely to Jack. "Good morning." Her voice was almost as crisp as her suit. She extended her hand, all business. "My name is Felicia Moretti. Felix Kellerman, Bryce's attorney, was unable to make this appointment, so he sent me in his stead."

Jack shut the door behind him and shook her hand carefully. "Special Agent Jack Malone. FBI."

"That guy!" Bryce shouted, pointing to Jack. "He called me a scumbag. And when I said something back to him, he said he was gonna knock out my teeth! How's THAT for police brutality?"

Felicia Moretti looked to Jack. "Any truth in that?"

"I interrogated Mr. Layman in the South Bronx hospital without altercation. At least not on my part," Jack answered. "Mr. Layman should write for television."

"That's a fuckin' lie!" Bryce shouted, banging his fists on the table.

Jack took a seat. He put up his hands as if to say_ 'see what I mean'_, as Bryce's dramatics only further illustrated his point.

Felicia cast her stony stare towards Jack. "That may be the case, Agent Malone, but I believe I'll count Mr. Layman's teeth before I leave."

Jack met her stare. "Be my guest."

The two played the staring game for the next few seconds as they each took the time to size up the other. "I understand that you have already interrogated my client," Felicia said, "without a lawyer present."

Jack kept his voice level. "Yes. Mr. Layman did not request the presence of counsel, so we continued with the interrogation."

Bryce immediately protested. "Oh, that's BULLSHIT!"

Felicia's expression said that she did not believe what Jack said, but that her mother had raised her to be polite. "I'm sure you're aware that this can be contested in court."

Jack stared forward, hard-eyed and humorless. "I have several agents ready to testify on my behalf that Mr. Layman did not request counsel until the interrogation was completed."

"Yes, I have their names in the report that was faxed to our office."

"Then I'm sure you'll be in contact with them." Jack took in a breath and said, "Ms. Moretti, as both you and Mr. Layman are aware, Mr. Layman is being charged with a number of crimes. Foremost among them, murder of an officer of the law and the attempted murder of four federal officers, not to mention a growing list of charges for the possession, manufacture, and trafficking of illegal drugs."

"Yes, I read the report."

"Then you understand that Mr. Layman faces the maximum penalty."

"I do."

"Right, and with the evidence against him and five eye witnesses ready to testify, it may be difficult to get any judge or jury to acquit Mr. Layman of these crimes." Jack paused before he said, "In fact, I'd say it may be impossible."

Felicia took a long look at Jack. She made no other veiled threats. The more she sat there, the more Felicia realized that there would be no reasoning or pleading with this man before her.

Jack took a breath and continued, "With that said, any information that Mr. Layman would like to offer the NYPD or the FBI would be very helpful." Silence settled into the room, and Jack let a minute pass before he said, "Is there anything else that I can help you to clarify?"

"No, I believe I have everything I need," Felicia said. "Thank you, Agent Malone. We both understand that it's late. If you don't mind, I'd like to confer with Mr. Layman as to the next steps we'd like to take in these proceeding."

Jack rose from his seat. "Of course. Take your time, Ms. Moretti." Jack cast Bryce a cold stare. "Mr. Layman is going to need all the legal advice he can get."

When the office door shut behind Jack Malone, Layman addressed Felicia. "What the hell was that? You put him in his fuckin' place and then you back down? I'm not paying you to take a back seat!"

Felicia took off her reading glasses. "Allow me to be candid. You're in deep shit, Mr. Layman."

Bryce jumped. "What? What the hell do you mean, I'm in deep shit? All they've got is fuckin' hearsay. They can't pin shit on me."

"Listen to me and listen very carefully."

"Hey, broads don't talk to me like-"

Felicia spoke overtop of him. "You're going to trial in less than a month, Mr. Layman, because of a decision the Supreme Court handed down four years ago."

"What decision was that?"

Felicia's gaze never faltered. Her voice was soft and intense. "It was the case of _Markham vs. New York_, and it has to do with the conditions under which individual states may best administer swift justice in cases where the death penalty is requested."

"_Death _penalty!" Bryce shouted, horror-struck. "They can't prove I killed anybody. They don't have shit! They can't even prove I was at the crime scene with that cop. The cop was on the other side of New York. It's all circumstantial!"

"In the eyes of the law, that doesn't matter," Felicia said. "You told the FBI where to find the body by the docks. How would you get that information if you didn't do it?"

"What do you mean it doesn't matter?" Bryce nearly screamed. "It does so matter! It better fuckin' matter! I didn't waste that guy. Innocent until proven guilty."

It never ceased to amaze Felicia Moretti how the most ruthless of criminals so often quoted the constitution when held accountable for their crimes. "Will you shut up, Mr. Layman?" Felicia inquired in that soft, intense voice.

To his own amazement, Bryce Layman shut up. The words 'death penalty' echoed within the confines of his mind. In his sudden fear, he had forgotten the number he pulled on the FBI, the Latino guy who near broke his face, and the agent who still promised to punch out his teeth. Now, he could only see an empty electric chair, awaiting his ass in the seat.

Perhaps Felicia could see some of this in his face, because she looked moderately pleased for the first time. She folded her hands on the pile of papers she had taken from her briefcase. "There is no such thing as an accessory when it comes to first degree murder committed during a felony crime, especially when the victim is a police officer."

"Hey! I already told that you that I didn't _do_ anything."

"I heard you the first time, Mr. Layman. Even with your ever-expanding criminal résumé, the state probably would not request the death penalty in this case, but the state has a witness who is willing to testify that you killed that police officer in cold blood. That means that the DA will ask for the greatest penalty. The electric chair. Lethal injection. The gas chamber. You take your pick. Do you understand?"

"I-"

"Good, now back to _Markham vs. New York_. The ten states that have the Capital Crimes Circuit Court do this all the time. So far, sixty-three men and women have been executed under _Markham _guidelines. It costs the taxpayers a little extra for the added court, but not that much, since they only work on a small percentage of first-degree murder cases. Also the taxpayers don't mind because – let us not forget, they _like _the death penalty."

Bryce looked on in disbelief, shocked silent.

"Anyway, Mr. Layman," Felicia continued, "a DA will only try a defendant under the _Markham _guidelines if he looks completely guilty. You didn't have the blood smeared on your hands; you just told them where they could get some on theirs."

Bryce looked like he was ready to throw up. He ran his hands over his face. "Oh, man…"

"Are you scared, Mr. Layman?" Felicia asked.

Bryce looked up with wide eyes. "Well, for a dead man, I'd say I look pretty good, wouldn't you?" He waited a beat before shouting, "Fuck yes, I'm scared! What does it look like?"

"I don't want you dead, Mr. Layman," Felicia corrected him. "In fact, my job is to keep you alive. I just want you scared. If you wander into that courtroom grinning and swaggering, they'll strap you to the chair and pull the switch. You'll be number sixty-four. But if you listen to me and you do what I say, we might – notice that I say we _might_ – we might be able to keep you alive."

Bryce frowned at his lawyer. It was the frown of a man who was trying very hard to grasp the teacher's lesson. "Okay. Okay, how do we do that?"

Felicia took a deep breath. Finally, she had his undivided attention. "There have been ten cases in the past five years in which people have been found not guilty by regular court juries under New York law." Felicia smiled. It would have been a pretty smile, had it appeared under different subject matter. "I should point out that one of those ten was defended by me. He was guilty as sin, Mr. Layman, as you no doubt are as well. However, he got off on lesser charges and will be up for parole in the next five years. So the first thing you need to do is hire me as your defense attorney."

Bryce nodded. A condemned man was an easy audience. "Okay. Okay, so you're hired. Now what?"

Felicia opened her briefcase. "I have some papers for you to sign, but first we have some points that we need to negotiate." She licked her index finger and sifted through a stack of papers. "It says here that you told the police, 'I never killed anybody. The other boys, they're the ones who did everything.'"

"Yeah, that's right. So what?"

"Just this," Felicia said, smiling ever so slightly. "This implies that you were scared of the 'other boys'. Were you scared of them?"

Bryce made a face. "Are you fuckin' kidding me-"

"Oh, come now, Mr. Layman. You were afraid for your life."

"What? C'mon…"

"You were scared to death. You were shaking in your drug dealing boots, you were so terrified," Felicia spelled out.

Bryce looked at her with squinted eyes. Slowly, he began to understand.

Felicia saw it in his eyes. "I don't want to lead you, Mr. Layman. I just want _you _to tell _me _the facts. I'm just your lawyer. However, Chris Grierson, your employee, is testifying that _you _killed the police officer. From what I understand, Chris Grierson was stoned out of his mind all the time."

Bryce began to smile. "He sure was."

"And Chris Grierson got crazy when he got stoned."

"Crazy as a mental patient."

Felicia smiled again. She saw the dawning hope in his eyes. "Mr. Layman, you could not control Chris Grierson. That's just the way it always went down."

Bryce pointed outside the door. "You'll tell them this. You'll tell the cops-"

"That brings us to our next point, Mr. Layman. The police. The FBI. In your infinite talents, you've managed to unite two of the world's most powerful offices, which are typically at odds with each other. You've united them as your enemies against you. You mentioned that they were especially brutal with your person."

Inspired, Bryce grinned. "Absolutely! They tore the shit out of me!"

"No, they didn't."

His grin faded and was replaced by a scowl. "What! Of course, they did!"

"They never laid a finger on you, because you never gave them reason to."

Bryce's chest rose in rage. "Hey, now wait a minute, that asshole in there and his friends ripped my face apart and I'm just supposed to-"

"Sit there," Felicia said. "Sit there and take it. You'll also cooperate to the best of your abilities, and maybe – just maybe – you'll stay alive, Mr. Layman."

"Cooperate! With them! After what they did to me!"

Felicia leveled her eyes sharply at him. "They didn't do anything to you, Mr. Layman. You never had an altercation." Bryce glared off to the side and stewed in his anger, but Felicia ignored his sulking. "These are my conditions, Mr. Layman. You will trust me on all matters involving your trial, or you're free to find other lawyers. They just won't be as good as I am."

Even as Bryce glared forward, he knew he wouldn't turn her away. It took a few minutes for him to say it, but eventually, he caved. "All right. Show me where to sign."

With Felicia's help, Bryce filled out the paperwork to request a plea to the NYPD and the FBI. He swore to the authorities that they would benefit from the information he had for sale. In exchange, he asked for a lesser charge and a chance for parole.

He signed the plea, hoping that by doing so he would escape the gas chamber, electric chair, and all the other executions Ms. Moretti had made so frighteningly real.

(x)

Felicia Moretti made her clients' wishes clear to both Detective Sanders and Agent Jack Malone. Once convinced that Mr. Layman's wishes were heard and understood, she handed the paperwork to Agent Malone and took her leave. When she left, Jack and Frank read over the statement. "Damn," Frank said.

"You can say that again," Jack said.

"He's got a good lawyer…. Just like you said."

"Yeah, well, bad ones don't usually visit their clients at two a.m.," Jack said. "She got Bryce to agree to play ball with us. That's a start."

"So this is good, right?"

"Good for my agents' sakes, just not for society as a whole."

"He won't get off," Frank said.

"Yeah, but he won't get the death penalty either."

"No. No, with Miss Felicia Moretti at his side, he probably won't."

Jack handed Frank the papers, glad to have them out of his hands. "You'll take care of this?"

Frank smirked. "Don't I always?"

Jack left the NYPD. Frank stayed behind. Alone in his office, Frank shut the blinds and locked the door. He took out the reports from Bryce Layman's interrogation and fed them one by one into the shredder.

(x)

The ride to Clinton Correctional Facility took an hour's drive. With his myriad of bruises and injuries and with his entire empire crushed by the NYPD and the FBI, Bryce Layman should have passed out in exhaustion.

However, Bryce Layman stayed awake for the entire ride. He didn't make a sound throughout the drive or even as the police car arrived at New York's largest maximum security prison. It took another hour for Layman to receive his prison uniform and for the guards to assign him to a cell. Layman was put into handcuffs and led up the steps by four armed gunmen.

He entered his cell in silence. The doors clanked shut with a cold, hard 'slam'. Bryce took a seat on his cot. The guards' footsteps grew fainter and fainter, until they disappeared altogether. His fellow prisoners took great joy in shouting taunts his way. However, when Bryce gave no reaction, even the inmates grew bored. They shifted in their sleep, snored, or talked amongst themselves.

Bryce stayed awake, staring at the wall with a look of pure hate. In the South Bronx, he was respected. He was feared. He was a man with a future and a vision, who always knew what needed to happen next. In prison, he had a different agenda, but he had an agenda all the same. He knew Jack Malone's name. He knew Chris Grierson and Jordan Coliandri and her brother Jason. They were names that he would not soon forget. What he still needed to know was the name of the man who so brutally attacked him at the NYPD and who left him bleeding chained to a chair.

Bryce didn't know his name, but he would. Of that, he was certain.

Interestingly enough, if Bryce had been asked, he couldn't have explained why it was so important to have Danny Taylor, to make him pay. The rationality of the problem eluded him. In truth, he had greater problems to worry about. But prison hours were long hours. The more he sat in his cell, the more and more he felt an urge to simply act, to move, to _do._ To destroy.

Bryce Layman's hatred of Danny had become a part of him. As he stared up at his ceiling that night, he saw Danny's solemn face. Even as Bryce fell asleep, he could feel his jaws squeeze together, his temples tense, and his anger burn.


	75. A Clean Slate

Wow, thanks for all the reviews! When I disappear for months at a time, I never expect readers to keep up. Your responses keep my pen to to the paper and give me a swift kick to the butt when I need one. Keep it up!

Ninz: I'm curious too! Haha, just kidding. Nice to meet youand thanks so much for reading!

Mariel & Anmodo: You've stuck with this story for so long and continue to inspire me with your own stories. I'm so glad you approve of the twist. ;D It's how I know I've made the right decision! As always, thank you for your words of encouragement. They keep me goin!

Fan1024: Thanks! You know, it's amazing how much a master's in social work helps this story! I also notice that you've added your own story to the WaT fan fic page. Good job!

JackofSpade: Haha, you read into that scene _perfectly._ And you know, those boys are my favorites, too. ;)

(x)

After finishing his reports, Martin Fitzgerald sat in his desk chair, facing the whiteboard and the disappearance timeline. He focused on Jordan and Jason's photograph, and their smiling faces stared back. As he sunk further into his chair, their faces started to blur. It would be foolish to fall asleep in the office, when his apartment was only a twenty minute drive away, but his head nodded all the same.

"I didn't expect to see you still here."

Martin sat up and shook himself awake. He swung his line of vision to see Vivian entering the bullpen. He pointed back to the disappearance timeline. "Somebody has to take this down," he said. "What's your excuse? I thought you'd be home by now."

Vivian took off a dark blue parka with 'FBI' written in large letters on the back and draped it over her desk chair. "I thought I'd come back and get my car."

Martin was tired, but he made himself smile. "You don't need that. I could have gotten you home."

"Oh? And who's going to bring me back tomorrow?"

"Isn't that what Marcus is for?"

Vivian smirked. "He's good for a lot of other things, too."

"Did you call him yet?"

Vivian unclipped her cell phone from her belt. "Yes. Twice."

"And?"

"He's relieved," she said, "and tired of waiting up for his wife to come home."

Martin brushed the thought away with his hand. "You can tell him you're just one among the many."

"The many? I don't see anyone else around."

"Just because they're not here doesn't mean they aren't at the office. Samantha's upstairs filing evidence. Jack's at the NYPD. Danny's probably on his way back from Northeast Detention. We're just the only ones with an excuse to leave."

"If that's so, what's keeping _you_ waiting?"

Martin turned to look her in the eye. "I wanted to hear any news you had on Danny. How is he?"

Vivian walked over and leaned against the desk next to Martin. "Tired. Exhausted. Like the rest of us," she said. "He found Jordan and Jason, and he got them back safely. They've still got a lot of work ahead of them … but I think he'll be okay."

Martin wanted to see that Danny was okay for himself, but it felt good to hear it from Vivian. "I hope so."

"He will be. It might take awhile, but something tells me that he'll want to get back to normal as soon as possible. Or as normal as things can be around here anyway." Vivian turned to Martin. "What else did we find out? Did Chris Grierson give us anything? Besides some attitude and a couple brand new nicknames?"

Martin huffed a short laugh. "Our friend Brad gave us more than that."

"Really?"

"He talked our ears off. We couldn't get him to shut up. He signed a statement. He gave us names, dates… He would have told us what these guys had for breakfast if he'd been there."

"I'm impressed. What about Layman?"

"That's what's keeping Jack at the NYPD. He went to talk to Bryce Layman with Detective Sanders."

Vivian raised her eyebrows. "The stories Layman has to spin should be interesting."

"Yeah and completely bogus. It'll probably be the stuff of bad fiction by the time his lawyer's done with him," Martin said. "But if we're lucky, he'll tell us at least some of what he knows. That should be enough to begin the war of who can rat out who first."

"Amazing how often that happens, isn't it?"

Martin shrugged. "That's all right by me. We're the only ones who win that war."

Vivian smirked. "I love these guys. They spin all this tough talk. Then the minute their lives are on the line, these drug dealers give us a concert that would put Aretha Franklin to shame."

Martin nodded, but he was only half-listening to Vivian. He could not take his eyes away from Jordan and Jason's picture hanging up on the whiteboard. Vivian's eyes soon followed his to the photograph and she said, "But no matter what happens with Bryce Layman or Chris Grierson, the important thing is that those kids are safe. That's what matters."

Martin nodded his agreement.

Vivian squinted, studying him. "You didn't think we'd find them, did you?"

Martin jolted and blinked towards her. He gave the question a moment's thought before saying, "This morning I thought we would. Then …Then after I sent Danny to see Bryce Layman…" He paused and looked to Vivian with sad eyes. "I don't know what happened, Viv. I just… I thought I was doing the right thing."

"You weren't the only one who thought so," Vivian said. "Martin, it was Danny that went into that interrogation room, not you."

"I know but that doesn't make it right. What I did-"

"We know what you did," Vivian said. "You screwed up. You made a mistake. Things like that happen, especially in a case as complicated as this one."

Even though Martin didn't quite buy what she said, he was grateful that she wasn't going to harp on him, at least not now anyway. "Yeah, well, something tells me Jack isn't going to be quite as forgiving as you are."

Not willing to speak for Jack, she said, "He'll want to have a long talk with you, I'm sure. I'm also sure that you'll have time to talk about this with Danny, when he's ready." She drew in a deep breath. "But, there's certainly no sense in worrying about that tonight. You'll have all the time for that in the morning."

Martin nodded again. Staring at the photograph of Jordan and Jason, he decided that Vivian was right. He would have time to talk about his decision tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. For now, he could be happy that they'd found Jordan and Jason, and that Danny had his family back.

Martin stood and walked up to the disappearance timeline. He picked up an eraser and turned to Vivian with a half-smile. "Would you help me do the honors?"

She returned the smile and took the eraser. "Gladly."

Vivian wiped down the board, cleansing it of all Jordan and Jason's exploits. Martin took down their photograph and once again gazed down into the faces of the two children. After tonight, Jordan and Jason, even Danny, were getting second chances. They were getting a clean slate.

Why shouldn't he?

When they finished, Vivian wiped her hands against her slacks. "You ready to call it a night?"

"Ready to call it a morning is more like it." Martin went to his desk and closed down his computer. "How much sleep do you think we'll get? One hour? Two hours?"

"I'm betting on three hours. Unless the missing let us sleep in for a change."

He grabbed his trench coat and briefcase. "Yeah, there's as much a chance of that happening as there is for the Mets to win the Series."

Vivian turned around in mock seriousness. "Don't let Danny hear you say that."

"Why else do you think I said it now?" Once Vivian had her coat and her purse, Martin opened the door for her. "After you."

"Why thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald."

"Don't mention it. And that's not all. If your car's parked near mine, I just might walk you to it."

Vivian chuckled as the two left the office together. Martin did walk Vivian to her car, even though it wasn't parked near to his. He waved to her as she drove away. When he sat down in his own car, calmness engulfed him.

The day had been one from hell. The fear and uncertainty had been exhausting. He'd made some mistakes, some serious ones, but they hadn't been fatal. The sun still set, and in another few hours (too few hours), it would almost certainly rise again. At the end of the day, despite all the mistakes made, Danny still had been reunited with his family.

Maybe he wasn't so much like his father… Maybe he could learn from his mistakes and move on. With that thought in mind, he pulled out of the parking lot and drove home for the night. Even as Martin appreciated the calm surrounding him, underneath he knew that a painful conversation with Jack Malone needed to take place. Martin would have to think soon about what to do next, and he would. But like Danny, he just needed time.


	76. The Relationship They Built

Thank you, anmodo, for inspiring me to write this chapter. Eventually this story may be finished yet. Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me while I write this. You've allowed me have so much fun with this story.

(x)

Jack Malone walked through the bullpen and entered into his office. He expelled a ragged sigh and ran his fingers over his eyes. Once he reached his desk, Jack dug around for the aspirin he kept in his desk drawer. He cradled his swollen arm. He suddenly felt he might need quite a few aspirin in the next twenty-four hours or so.

"Hey."

Jack looked up to see Samantha leaning against his doorway. Her eyes were droopy and her blonde hair was mussed from their long day. But she moved with the natural ease of a woman who knows she is beautiful and is no longer self-conscious about it. Jack smiled. "Hey, yourself."

Samantha pursed her lips as she usually did when she had something on her mind. "How did we do?"

"We found them," Jack said in a soft, tired voice. "Danny knew where Jordan would take Jason. He brought them back."

Samantha nodded, appearing relieved to hear it from him. "How are they?"

"Jason had to be taken to the hospital. Sometime during their little escapade, he got a cut on his leg. The good new is it'll heal, and he can walk on it. The bad news is that even with stitching it'll leave a nasty scar. According to Jason, he roughed it up while playing near a chain link fence when he got out of Chris's car. We had child protective services speak to Jason and Jordan, and the story checked out." Jack paused and continued, "Jordan was fine physically, just a couple of bruises. But Danny and Vivian had a social worker talk to her in the emergency room."

Samantha's brow furrowed. "Were they able to release her?"

Jack nodded. "She had to sign a contract saying that she wouldn't run or put herself in danger if they let her go. Other than that she didn't want to talk much. She did some dangerous things, and something tells me they haven't exactly taken their toll yet."

"How could they? Who knows how long she's been without food or sleep. She's got to be exhausted." Samantha shook her head and walked up to his desk. "Where are they keeping her?"

"Northeast."

Samantha made a disgusted noise.

"I know," Jack said. "Danny wasn't happy with it either."

"Who can blame him? The place is a lawsuit waiting to happen. Another lawsuit."

"Hopefully with Danny watching their every move, they'll be a little less brainless this time. Until they can move her some place elese."

At that, Samantha's face filled with concern. "And Danny. How was he?"

"He's pretty shook up. He'd never admit it, but..."

Samantha gave a weak smile. "That's Danny for you."

"Yeah," Jack breathed out. "That's one thing that hasn't changed."

"Earlier today, when we still hadn't found anything, I thought he might lose it," Samantha found herself saying. "If he hadn't found them…" Samantha trailed off, but Jack still heard the rest of her unspoken statement. _If they hadn't found them, he would have._

"He pulled through," Jack said. "I might not have liked how he did it, but I don't think anyone else could have gotten them down from there. Not the way he did."

"No wonder. Look at the other people in Jordan's life. A murdering drug dealer, a coked-out boyfriend. A caretaker too burnt out from all the other children she was caring for…"

"Not to mention a dead father and a mother who bailed right after."

Samantha continued, "She was desperate. She had nowhere to go. She couldn't go back to the Detention Center. She couldn't go back to Chris' apartment. She couldn't go back to the orphanage, when she thought Rachel had been murdered."

"When she blamed _herself _for Rachel's murder," Jack added.

"She must have thought the Grotto was the only way."

"She was tired of running," Jack said. "She went to that Grotto to end it. One way or another."

Samantha blinked at the statement. "You think she went there to kill herself."

"She went there with a gun," Jack reminded her. "Maybe Jordan didn't even know what she was doing, but she brought that gun up there with her for a reason. She needed that gun, in case she had no other way out."

"It's a good thing Danny found her when he did."

"He was the only one she trusted," Jack said. "She is damned lucky Danny got there when he did. She could have gotten both her and her brother killed."

"But Danny did get there," she said more to herself than to Jack. "He came through for her."

Jack focused solely on Samantha. "A lot of these kids that go missing don't have anybody looking out for them. But sometimes if they're lucky, there's one person that can get through when no one else can. For Jordan, that was Danny."

Samantha stared away. "It makes me wonder what Danny said to her to get her to come back down and work things out."

Jack neared her, and when Samantha gazed up, their eyes locked. "It wasn't what he said," Jack said softly. "It didn't matter what he said. It was the relationship they had and the trust they built. In that moment, that was all that mattered."

When he finished speaking, emotion washed over Samantha's face. She touched Jack's cheek, and Jack's hand fell instinctively to the curve of her waist. In response, Samantha grabbed him in a tight embrace. Tears began to well in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. Jack jerked, surprised by her reaction, and after a short moment, he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

Samantha pressed her cheek against Jack's. "I almost lost you today."

Jack pulled away just enough so that she could look into his eyes. He cupped Samantha's face in his hands. "Look at me," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

Samantha kissed him, and Jack returned the kiss just as passionately. His hands moved across her shoulders, down her back, and rested on her hips. When she was with Jack, like this, something happened. An emotion filled her – wild and out of her control. For years she tried to reason through it, tried to blame someone for it. Then she realized: It wasn't him. It wasn't her. It was the chemistry between them.

Jack put his left hand against the nape of her neck, pulling her into a hard and needy kiss. Samantha knew that the perfect relationship did not magically occur in a kiss, just as two halves don't magically make a whole by saying "I do". But maybe it didn't have to.

Their relationship – as wild and turbulent as it was – was something they had created together. Now in this moment that was enough. It was in fact all that mattered.


	77. Say Good Night

Anmodo: I can't believe it either! After getting your email, I was inspired to continue. Thank you so much for keeping in touch!

Mariel3: Oh my gosh! It is so good to hear from you again!! I know I've spent some time away, but it's so good to be back and one step closer to finishing this story. Thanks for reading. :) I so hoped that you would like the J/S.

Diane: Thanks for giving this a read! I'm so glad that you like the J/S. I had not planned on getting them together, but … sometimes things just happen. I'm glad they did, and I'm glad you checked it out!

Writing this story has been a journey, and I anticipate that it will continue for another 4-5 chapters. I am writing in hopes that I will finish this soon. :) Thank you all so much for keeping up with this and for taking the journey with me.

(x)

The ride back from Northeast Detention was long and quiet. When Danny Taylor finally parked behind St. Luke's Orphanage, he found himself shocked that he had made it back without falling asleep at the wheel or waking up in a ditch with a headache. It was a bad idea to drive when you were tired, and Danny Taylor was completely exhausted.

He locked his car and trudged up the steps. Once inside, Danny basked in the warmth of the convent. He walked as quietly as possible past the kitchen and then paused in his steps, when he saw Fr. Jorge standing at the end of the hallway.

"Welcome home, hijo."

"Gracias, padre. Your children are home," he whispered. "What're you still doing up?"

"I was waiting for one more." Fr. Jorge smiled. "It is good to have you home."

"It's good to be home."

"We will talk, but only after we rest." Fr. Jorge turned back to his room. "Los sueños dulces, mi hijo bueno."

"E tu, padre."

Fr. Jorge shut the door to his bedroom, and Danny smiled and scratched the back of his head. He walked up the stairs and quietly opened the door of Jason's room. He gazed down upon the little boy, curled up and deeply sleeping. Danny stepped up to the boy's bedside, and he gently touched Jason's head of hair.

Jason's eyes opened sleepily. "Danny…"

"Hey, buddy."

"Where's Jor? Is she okay?"

"She's safe just like I told you she would be," Danny said. "Now, shhh. Go back to sleep."

"Okay," he said, rolling over and balling up in the covers.

Danny kissed Jason on top of the head. "Los sueños dulces, mi hijo bueno…"

Jason knew the answer. "E tu…"

Danny walked back downstairs and softly padded into the living room. Sr. Rachel slept soundly, curled up on the orange plaid couch. Danny reached over for the afghan resting on top of the couch and draped it over Rachel. He touched her hair lightly and walked past her and out onto the balcony of the convent.

He closed the door behind him and rested his hands on the wooden ledge. Danny stared forward as the first light of daybreak touched the edge of the skyline. He stood, conscious only that the light dawn breeze felt nice against his sweaty face.

Danny was not really thinking of anything. He unconsciously realized that it was a good kind of not thinking. It wasn't like that strange apathy that shrouded him in the convent as he waited for the phone call. Ever since he heard that Jordan and Jason were seen, that they were alive, Danny had been more and more himself. His lack of thought was now a kind of rest, after seeing the children through the last of it.

Danny stayed on the balcony, watching the sun rise and feeling overcome. He remembered feeling similarly after stopping Claire De Lune from committing suicide. He had stood by the Hudson Bridge for hours, crying as loudly and fitfully as he could stand. This time, there were no tears, only a smile in place. There was something different about his last encounter with Jordan, and the way the night had unfolded. Perhaps that was why he hadn't gone to sleep. Something was different, and Danny wanted to be awake in case he realized exactly what had changed. Danny stood there on the balcony soaking in the soft light of morning for a half hour or better, until he felt a warm hand on his shoulder.

Sr. Rachel smiled up at him, still on the edge of sleep. "Hey," she said.

Danny smiled back. "Hey."

Sr. Rachel handed him a mug of hot tea, and then she returned with her own, the afghan still draped around her shoulders. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"I make it a point not to wake up beautiful sleeping women, after they've been awake all night."

Rachel tried to look disapproving but did a poor job of it. "What about you? What are you doing out here?"

Danny's smile quirked to the side. "I might ask you the same question, senorita."

"Haven't you noticed? I'm keeping you company."

Danny threw back his head and laughed. He was enormously relieved to find that the good feel of laughing hadn't changed. It rose from his belly and escaped from between his teeth in the same jolly go-to-hell way. "Oh really?"

"Yes, really."

"Well, to answer your question…" Danny took a sip of his tea. "I noticed."

"I figured as much." Rachel stood beside him on the balcony. "How was Jordan?"

Danny nodded before he answered. "She made it to Northeast just fine," he said. "She'll be okay. She's home now. From here things can change."

"Yes, I suppose they'll have to." She added as an afterthought, "As they always do."

Danny stared at Rachel, and she stared back without saying anything. He met the woman's soft gaze and thought: _I think I've changed. Somehow, I don't know how much._

No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. There are no maps of change. You just … come out the other side. Or you don't.

He'd changed somehow. He'd come out the other side.

Danny set down his tea on the edge of the balcony, and he pulled her into a gentle embrace. "Thank you," he said.

She gave a short, confused laugh. "For what?"

Danny pulled away to look at her. So many answers swirled through his mind that he could only say, "For everything."

Danny tilted her chin up towards him, but Rachel backed away ever so slightly. She looked down, still holding him in her arms. Then she smiled back up at him with those cold, dark eyes that seemed to know everything, the eyes of a young woman in a Victorian painting. "Danny, I …" But whatever she had been planning to say was replaced with. "You look tired."

"We both do," he said.

"I have to stay up to make breakfast for the children," she said. "You should get some rest, Danny. You had a very long day."

Rachel touched his cheek, which was sandpapery with stubble, and when her hand fell away, Danny reached out to take it in his own. Rachel smiled wearily, and she gently pulled her hand away. "I'll be here when you wake up," she said. "Good-night, Danny."

With that, she retreated back into the kitchen. Standing alone on the balcony, Danny ran his hands over his face and through his hair. He watched where she'd left and shook his head. "Good night… mujer encantadora…"

Danny brought his mug of tea inside and set it down on the coffee table. As he passed by the kitchen, he could hear the clanking of silverware and plates. As he went up the stairs, he could hear children stirring in their rooms. He found the guest room, the room he'd come to think of as his own.

He sat on the edge of the bed and wiped his eyes slowly. He thought of Rachel telling him he was tired. She was right. He was tired. He had never been so tired. He went to bed and slept soundly for eighteen hours straight.


	78. Alive and Together

Anmodo and Marialisa: Thanks for the reviews! I know! I have no idea how Rachel does it. She is a much stronger female than I am, I'll tell you that much. ;D

Ninz: Good to hear from you again! I'm glad you like the pairing. (I love Danny and Rachel too –lol-.)

Here's another chapter. Thank you for the love. :) I'll keep trying to deliver…

(x)

Jack awoke as daylight filtered in through Samantha's bedroom window. Next to him, Samantha's breathing was slow and regular, undisturbed. Everything was picked out in the light of morning so bright that it was surreal.

Jack settled back down in the sheets. He smiled contentedly. There was something about her bed – the way it filled the room, the immaculate whiteness, the softness of her sheets, the thickness of the comforter, the tightness of the tucked-in bedding – that was intoxicating. Jack had always loved Samantha's bedroom. It was soft and sweet-smelling like heaven must be.

Jack stayed there, his warm body beside hers, until Samantha took in a breath and awoke. When she opened her eyes, she smiled up to him. "Hey," she drew out.

Jack returned the smile and brushed blonde strands of hair out of her eyes. "Hey."

Samantha moved onto her side, so that her head was resting against Jack's chest. They stayed in each other's embrace as the morning sun rose, until finally Samantha shirked and asked. "How's the arm?"

"Hurts." Jack smiled wryly. "It's like a bullet went through it or something."

She shook her head, trying not to smile, and touched the bandage. "You should change that."

"Yeah. I could use a shower first."

"Is that a request?"

"Hey, you know me. I'm not the type to wait around for a written invitation."

Samantha laughed. "Oh really?" And at the same time Jack's cell phone rang loudly from the dresser.

Jack glanced at the phone in annoyance and looked to Samantha with a shake of his head. He reluctantly got up and walked over to the dresser. He stood over it irresolutely, thinking how much he disliked the sound that modern telephones made. Once upon a time, they had rung – jingled merrily, even. Now they made a shrill ululating sound that sounded like a migraine trying to happen.

He picked it up. "Special Agent Malone." He leaned against the dresser, still in his boxers. "Uh-huh… Uh-huh… Where was he last seen? … Has the press been notified? … No. Good. … Okay, keep this under wraps. I want my team to have full access to the scene, and I want my team to have time to process what they find before America sees it on the morning news. … Okay. … That's fair. … Okay. I'll be there within the hour."

Jack closed his phone, and Samantha stood, still wrapped up in her sheets. "What's the situation?"

"The police got a call from Congressman Peter Blaize, who lives in upstate New York. According to him, his twenty-year-old son, Luke, came in last night with bruises on his face. He woke up this morning and there's no sign of him."

"Peter Blaize. He's the republican funding the victim's rights organization that started a few years back."

"That's the one."

"He's up for re-election this year."

Jack tossed his cell phone onto the bed. "Great way to start your campaign year."

Samantha slipped into her bathrobe and looked to Jack. "No rest for the weary, right?"

"I guess that shower's gonna be a little shorter than we thought."

Samantha brushed past him and eyed him mischievously. "We better make the most of it then."

Jack's eyebrows went up and he grinned. "If we're late to work, I'm blaming you."

Samantha called to him from the bathroom. "What are you waiting for? A written invitation?"

Jack laughed and hurried in after her.

(x)

The next morning, Danny Taylor awoke early from a deep sleep. He brushed his hand over his head of bed-hair and looked around. He awoke two or three times during the last twenty-four hours. Once to call Northeast Detention to make sure Jordan was still alive and well, and a few times when his team called to let him know that they had their next case under control without his involvement. Danny didn't like leaving the four to them out there to work on their own. The thought left him with feelings of responsibility and guilt. However, Danny was also aware of his physical limitations. He knew that his body needed the time to recuperate if he was going to be any help to them in the near future.

Danny sat up in bed and stood up to stretch. He opened the curtains and blinds of his room to look out onto the streets of the Bronx. The sky was impossibly blue, and white industrial smoke was frozen in the sky, like a photograph. It was six 'o clock and the city had yet to come fully alive.

Danny showered and dressed. He padded downstairs, and he stopped by the church when he heard Fr. Jorge setting up for morning mass.

Fr. Jorge smiled at him. "Good morning, hijo."

"Morning, padre."

The priest was in the middle of setting up candles on the alter. "How were your dreams? Were they good?"

Danny smiled from the aisle of the church. "I don't know," he said. "I can't remember them."

"What are your plans for today?"

"I'm going to see Jordan at the detention center. Then I'm going to meet up with her uncle and child protective services to discuss our options from here, and after that, I'm going to stop by the office."

"You have a full day. Did your job give you time off?"

"They did," Danny said. "But you know how I work."

Fr. Jorge smiled. "Come see us soon. I know Rachel will be wanting to see you."

Danny nodded, but didn't respond to the statement. Instead, he said, "I'll see you later, father."

"Have a good day, hijo."

"You too, padre."

Danny walked briskly out of the church. He couldn't remember another time when he had felt so alive or so together. _If I dreamed, _Danny thought. _They must have been good dreams._ He felt like his old self and he thought today would be a good day.

Danny went to Northeast Detention, where he met with Jordan, her uncle, and the team of workers overseeing her case. With Danny's involvement, Jordan and her uncle were able to get answers to questions – promptly and in the form of one syllable. They set up a treatment plan for her, and as they ended, Danny made plans with Michael Aderes for a return visit.

But those weren't the meetings that worried him. The meeting he was not looking forward to was the one with Jack Malone.


	79. Recovery Time

Thanks to anmodo and marialisa for the reviews. You're right Danny is definitely catching Jack in the best mood possible. ;) Welcome back to Politik and JackofSpade! It's good to hear from you again! Thanks for reading, everybody! I shall keep updating as I find the time.

(x)

Jack stared over Vivian's shoulder at a photograph from the security tape.

Vivian held it up beside another photograph from the board. "Looks familiar, doesn't he?"

Jack's smirk turned into a smile. "At least they got his good side. Take Martin with you and bring this guy in. I think it's time we had a chat with Mr. Dorsain."

Vivian looked at her watch. "And right in the middle of his morning breakfast. That ought to put him in a good mood."

"Yeah. Let's just hope he didn't make any big plans for lunch." Jack turned away from Vivian to see Danny Taylor standing by his office door. Jack excused himself and walked over to Danny.

Danny smiled. "Hey."

Jack appraised Danny as he walked up to him. He could tell that Danny had gotten some rest, and that alone made the young man look worlds better than he had the night at the Grotto. Jack smiled to Danny and put a hand on his shoulder. "Hey. Want to step inside?"

"Yeah, sure." Danny followed after Jack and shut the door behind them.

Jack walked behind his desk and set down his coffee cup, before looking up at Danny. "How are you doin'?"

"Better." He smiled sideways. "It's amazing what a good night's sleep can do."

"You know, I was just thinking that myself. You look good."

"Thanks." Danny pointed to Jack's arm. "How about you? How's your arm?"

Jack paused and then shrugged. "Well enough to work." They shared a commiserating smirk before Jack asked, "How are the kids?"

"They're doing okay. Jason's at the orphanage. He's still confused about everything that happened, but he's glad to be back home. Jordan's still at Northeast Detention." Danny heaved a frustrated sigh. "Which I'm dealing with today."

Jack nodded. "What about the other girl?"

"Kylie?" Danny's brow furrowed. "She sits. She sleeps. She eats if we give her food…"

"Does she answer questions?"

"We're working on that." A short silence lingered in the air, before Danny said, "We tried to tell her that she didn't see Bryce Layman that night. That the man had actually been a … 'friend' of Jordan's, and trust me I used that word lightly. But she doesn't hear it. She still convinced that she saw Layman break into the orphanage."

"Well, she's been traumatized. She sees a man breaking into the orphanage right after Bryce Layman threatens her life. No wonder she thought it was him."

"Yeah, well, try telling her that. You'd have a better chance convincing the brick wall outside."

"Do you have her in counseling?"

"She has an appointment with a woman named Mary Rogers at the Children's Center the day after tomorrow. I haven't heard of her, but Rachel says she's good." Danny sat down across from Jack as Jack took a seat behind his desk. "I don't want to push her, but if we get her to talk, it'll mean a stronger case against Layman. That's what's most important right now."

Jack nodded. "Right. If Kylie says she saw him in the orphanage, and there's no proof he was there…"

"Nothing else she says will mean anything," Danny finished. Then he said, "I heard Layman found a lawyer."

"Yeah, he did, and a good one."

A cloud fell over Danny's face. "It figures. How do these guys manage to break the law – so badly that they get caught by the FBI – and somehow scrounge up enough money to have somebody twist whatever got them there in the first place?"

"You got me," Jack said. "But I'll tell you one thing. We're lucky."

"How's that?"

"The lawyer's not holding the FBI accountable for any damages. So far, anyway." As Danny's body tensed, Jack sucked in a thoughtful breath."That's something you and me are gonna have to talk about… at some point."

Danny frowned. "Why not now?"

Jack leaned his arms against his desk. "Because I want you to take a week off from working here."

"Why?" Danny asked, feigning confusion.

Jack eyed Danny meaningfully.

Danny sat back in his chair. "Jack, if you've got something to say, I want to hear it."

Jack read Danny's reaction. Danny raised his eyes, and the message was clear: He was ready for it. All right. If Danny wanted it, Jack could bring it. "I know what you did to Layman, and I understand why you did it. But if you are going to make a move like going to the NYPD to have a chat with a potential suspect, that is something –I- need to know about. Before it happens."

"I know, Jack, and I apologize for any miscommunication that took place." But Danny couldn't stop there. He had to tack on, "But that son of a bitch had it coming. You know that."

Jack sighed. There was so much he wanted to say on the matter. He wanted to talk about Danny's insubordination, his blatant disregard for authority, and his anger management problem. But at the same rate couldn't Jack himself be accused of the same? "Danny… you got Jordan and Jason back alive, and that's what this bureau asks us to do. You did everything you could for this case, but in the big picture – there are only so many strings we can pull before you run out of tightrope wire."

Danny let out a hard sigh. "Jack, I've got it under control-"

Jack spoke before he had a chance to stop himself. "No, you don't have it under control."

"What are you trying to say?"

Jack sat up as he took a deep breath. "I'm suggesting that you take a look at why you did the things you did and why you made the choices you made, before an OPR investigation comes in here and does it for you."

Danny was already shaking his head. "What? Are you saying that I need some kind of counseling?"

Jack raised his eyebrows and sent Danny a glance.

Danny's jerked in his seat. "You're serious? You think I need therapy? You think I need therapy because I busted a guy who almost killed Jordan and Jason, threatened to kill a twelve-year-old girl, and was running one of the largest cocaine rings out a factory in the South Bronx." Jack went to say something, but Danny spoke overtop of him. "There's lots of things that keep me up at night. But Bryce Layman's not one of them. I'm not sorry for what I did to Layman. I'm sorry for Kylie, who'll probably spend the rest of her life having nightmares about him."

Jack sat in the silence, staring forward at his desk. He hadn't wanted to talk about it like this, but as he sat there thinking, he realized that one way or another they would have had this conversation. It was just sooner than Jack preferred. Jack let the silence contrast Danny's yelling. "I'm just asking you to think about it. And the next week will give you time to think it over."

Danny stared down into the carpet. "Jack, I'm fine-"

"Danny, this isn't a suspension or anything that reflects poorly on your performance. I am giving you this time to retrieve normalcy for yourself and for the people in your life." Danny raised his eyes, and Jack said, "Recovery doesn't happen overnight, no matter how much we want it to. As your supervisor I can't do much to see you have that, so I'm doing this."

Danny stared at him stubbornly, but he must have realized Jack wasn't going to budge, because eventually his face relaxed. "You want me to take one week."

"That's what I'm asking."

Danny opened up his hands. Before he knew what he saying, he relented. "Okay."

Jack blinked, surprised by the turn around, and looking into his agent's eyes replied, "Okay."

With that, Danny stood up from his seat. "You know I'll still be checking in."

Jack was certain that Danny would do more than that. "If there's a crisis, you'll be one we call."

Danny smirked. "Yeah 'if'. I'll be expecting a phone call."

Jack and Danny said their good-byes and Danny went out in the bullpen to talk to Vivian. Jack stayed in his office and ran his fingers over his eyelids. Jack knew what Danny was getting at. He couldn't run his office with just four people. In fact it had been difficult running it with five. It was a thought he'd been meaning to address for some time.

Jack reached into his desk drawer for his aspirin, and when he did, instead he picked up a half a bottle of aftershave. Jack stared at it, mildly bewildered, and then realization stemmed across his face. He looked out the window of his office to see Samantha working diligently at her computer.

Jack sighed and ran his fingers over the bottle of aftershave.

That left the necktie and his favorite sweatshirt.

Two more months.


	80. Best Interest

Finally back. Here is the next segment. I enjoyed writing this and learning more about Mr. Michael Aderes, Jordan's uncle. I want to thank Mariel, Marialisa, JackofSpace, and anmodo so much for the reviews! I hope all is going well for you and that you all had a wonderful July 4th:)

(x)

Over the next week, Danny Taylor had no choice but to take time off from working in the FBI. However, he certainly hadn't taken any time off from working on Jordan's case, and neither had Michael Aderes.

The courts scheduled Jordan to be arraigned within two weeks, and the onset of that had only inspired the professionals of Northeast Detention to arrange a series of seemingly never-ending meetings. Meetings with staff. Meetings with court officials. Meetings with security. Meetings with whoever they could get to attend.

The meetings took place in Northeast Detention's only conference room. The room consisted of eight swiveling black chairs and a massive, heavy oak desk. The desk and chairs were brand new, as the agency had only opened within the past year, but the rest of the room left much to be desired. The windows of the room were streaked and smudged. The once-white blinds were speckled with dust, and the blue carpet looked like it hadn't been vacuumed since the facility opened its doors. Thankfully at this meeting, there was only one other person besides Danny and Michael. It was difficult to say whether the other person noticed the grimy state of the room or not. He was too busy staring at the end of the table at Danny and Michael.

Danny narrowed his eyes at the professional sitting across the table from him. He spoke in a slow, agitated tone of voice. "Mr. Jenkins, I've seen the treatment plan that Northeast Detention has for Jordan. In fact I'm sure you know that's exactly what I drove all the way out here in rush hour traffic to talk about."

Mr. Jenkins was a middle-aged man with an elongated face, and his hair was so blonde that it could have been white. His eyes were a bright blue, and with the cornsilk hair, his Swedish or Norwegian descent was unmistakable. Normally, his face was pale as his hair but today it flushed bright crimson red. "Special Agent Taylor, we understand that you've been involved with this case for the past two weeks, and that you've become invested in the well-being on this young girl. That's why we invited you here today." Mr. Jenkins sucked in a breath. "But I'm afraid that the suggestions you've provided us with just does not reflect the reality of Jordan's situation."

"Look, Mr. Jenkins, I may not be a … " Danny smirked and lifted up the man's card to his eyes. "A psychoanalyst. But I've been in law enforcement long enough to know when a plan does not work. This treatment plan looks like it was thrown together as soon as you realized yesterday that you had a meeting with myself and Mr. Aderes. What was it? Five 'o clock that Friday?"

Mr. Jenkins snapped back. "That report had been in review hearings over the past week."

"Oh really? And who's been reviewing it?"

Mr. Jenkins scowled. "The interdisciplinary team and the discharge planning division of this facility."

"The discharge planning division? That's funny, because according to your plan there is no discharge for Jordan. What do you expect her to do?" Danny chucked the paper across the table to Mr. Jenkins. "Start paying rent when she turns 18?"

"And what would your plan be, Special Agent Taylor? Maybe you'd like to release her back into society with an open juvenile crime jacket."

"You know that's a good idea. Maybe I oughtta go out back and check the ceilings just to make sure your facility hasn't done that for us already."

Mr. Jenkins gritted his teeth and his face swelled red.

Beside Danny, Michael sat in an expensive business suit and tie, but he didn't look like a business man. He looked like a lion ready to attack its victim at the jugular. "Mr. Jenkins-"

Mr. Jenkins lifted his hand dismissively. In his playing days, Danny bet that Dick Butkus and Ray Nitzchke couldn't stop Michael Aderes with body blows. Now this one-hundred and fifty pound director of psychoanalysis could silence him with but a wave. "Mr. Aderes, I also understand that you are the representation for Jordan Coliandri in these proceedings. I know that both you and Special Agent Taylor are working only in Jordan's best interest. However, while her behavior is both provocative and shocking, I assure both of you gentlemen that this type of abscondence has happened before. Many times in fact at this very facility."

Danny smirked. "Really? I'm shocked." He looked to Michael Aderes. "How about you, counselor? Are you shocked?"

Michael leaned in. "Amazed."

Mr. Jenkins frowned. "Mr. Aderes, now, listen here-"

"No, sir. If you please, I need you to listen here." Michael took a deep breath and leaned his large forearms against the table. "It's well documented that the events that led to Jordan Coliandri's escape put your facility under investigation. Individual benefactors stopped funding your organization, and it's rumored that the government intends to do the same. Without funding or clear representation, this facility can be found guilty of negligence and most likely shut down." Mr. Jenkins clamped his mouth shut at that, giving Michael room to continue. "Though I have my own personal bias on the matter, I believe that's for the courts to decide. However, that is not the trial we came here to discuss today. We're here to discuss the fate of Jordan Coliandri, and how your facility can either help or hinder her growth into a law-abiding, well-adjusted adult. Agent Taylor and I are not asking for you to help Jordan commit further crimes against society. We're asking you to testify that Northeast Detention has given Jordan a psychological diagnosis, and that you believe she is in further need of therapeutic help at a better equipped facility designed to focus on the trauma she's experienced."

Mr. Jenkins face returned to its normal shade of color. It became clear that while Mr. Jenkins still wasn't convinced, his anger was beginning to fade. "She is in need of therapeutic help, but she is also a danger to society. She needs to be put in a residential facility that can give her intense military structure, just like this one."

Danny sighed hard and started to say something, but Michael put up his hand. Danny stared at Michael, frowned, but allowed him to continue speaking. "I agree that Jordan needs a structured program," Michael said. "But if we put her in a jail setting, Jordan will be given the message that she is a criminal. Once that label is given, it's just that much easier to identify with it. And I don't need to tell you, Mr. Jenkins, that once being a criminal is a part of her identity – it is only a matter of time before her behaviors will begin to reflect that label."

Mr. Jenkins heaved a frustrated sigh. "I-I…" He stammered and then got control of his tone. "There's only so much I can-"

"Mr. Jenkins," Michael continued. "Why did you get into this line of work? Why did you become a psychoanalyst?" Mr. Jenkins narrowed his eyes at Michael, as if trying to see past his skin to the core of his person. While that did not earn him any answers, Michael gladly answered for him. "You got into this line of work to help people and to give troubled adolescents a second chance. I want that for Jordan. Special Agent Taylor wants that for Jordan, or else we never would have come down here today. Now, I understand that this facility is under serious investigation. The facility is in danger of being shut down, and that leads to frustration. It would be very easy for the staff of this facility to take that frustration out on the child who brought its problems to light." Michael shook his head. "Please don't do that to her. Jordan has been through enough. She has enough problems to deal with, without being responsible for this agency's problems as well."

Mr. Jenkins stared down at the carpet, taking in the words that Michael Aderes shared with him. Danny watched the man consider, and he held his breath, waiting for what he might say.

Before Mr. Jenkins could speak, Michael added. "This facility may not survive its investigation, but at least during the trial, your testimony will show other facilities and other professionals that you were in no way connected with its failings."

Mr. Jenkins pursed his lips and wrung his hands together. Finally, after he collected himself, he said, "Gentleman… perhaps I could rework this treatment plan to include some of the concerns that both you and Special Agent Taylor have. Perhaps… through my further recommendations, we will be able to ensure that Jordan will thrive at her next placement…wherever that may be."

Michael Aderes' smiled tentatively. "That would be greatly appreciated by myself and Special Agent Taylor."

Mr. Jenkins frowned and leaned in to say. "I'll do what I can within the boundaries of my profession," he said. "But I can't work magic."

This time when Danny spoke his voice held compassion. "No one's asking you to, Mr. Jenkins," he said. "All we need is the truth."

With that, the meeting ended, and Mr. Jenkins took his leave, giving Danny and Michael a nervous handshake. As Mr. Jenkins walked around the corner and disappeared back into the facility, Danny and Michael were escorted out of Northeast Detention, past the barbed wire and chain link fences surrounding the building. When their escorts left, Danny looked to Michael.

Michael Aderes ran a hand down his face and leaned hard against the nearest brick wall. He fumbled into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He fished out a cigarette and lit up.

Danny rested a hand on the man's shoulder. "You all right?"

He worked to catch his breath. "Yeah."

"That was incredible."

He breathed out a long stream of smoke and rested his head against the brick wall. "Thanks."


	81. Back at the Diner

Thanks to anmodo, ninz, and Mariel! So good to hear from you again! I hope life is treating you all well, and I hope your day is going better than most. Here's another chapter to get you through this Monday.

(x)

"Smoking or non-smoking?"

Danny looked to Michael, turned back to the waitress, and said, "Smoking."

An older woman in a faded pink uniform grabbed two menus and led Danny and Michael over to a booth by a window that sported a stunning view of the South Bronx. Her nametag said "Lois." Her graying hair was poorly disguised with a bronzy dye job in dire need of a touch-up, and she looked like she'd worked at the South Bronx Diner since its opening, which could have easily been half a century ago.

Danny and Michael took seats opposite each other, and Lois handed each a menu. Barely giving them enough time to peruse the sparse menu, she asked, "What'll it be, boys?"

Danny looked up. "Two eggs scrambled with hash browns and wheat toast, and a double order of bacon."

Michael handed his menu to the waitress. "Yeah, I'll have the same."

She furiously scribbled down the orders. "You boys having anything to drink?"

Michael smirked to Danny. "Coffee," he said to the waitress.

"You said it." Danny chuckled a little. "We are definitely going to need coffee."

"Comin' up." The waitress headed back to the kitchen, her beat up Keds squeaking against the floor.

When she was gone, Mike said to Danny, "Double order of bacon, huh?"

"You can never have too much bacon." He leaned back and rested his hand against his hands. "You only get to live once, know what I mean, man?"

"I'll have to take your word for that. You live a little more dangerously than I do, Agent Taylor." Mike fished out his cigarettes again and lit up what was probably already his fifth cigarette of the day. Michael sat back and appraised the diner. The benches were chipped and the tiles were yellowed with age. Outside the neon-sign flashed in the strange form of Morse code that only neon-flashing signs know. In no time at all, the waitress brought over two cups of coffee, overflowing into the saucers.

Michael waited until Lois the waitress was out of hearing range before saying to Danny. "You know, we probably could have gone some place nicer… stood in line for lord knows how long to get into a 5-star restaurant, burned a hole in our pockets and wasted a good hour of our time waiting for the food to get there…"

Danny brought down his hands and leaned against the table. "But why do that when the best food in the Bronx is served right here?"

"You mean the greasiest?"

Danny arched an eyebrow. "That isn't the same thing?"

Michael cackled and let out a long stream of smoke. "You've got a point. These diners are the only place you can get a decent breakfast."

"All that and a double order of bacon." He pointed to the window. "And the best view our taxpayers can offer."

"The $10,000 dollar view huh?"

Danny evaluated that. "I was thinking $6 maybe $7 dollars, maybe some change..."

Michael laughed again. "You've got a good sense of humor." He pointed to Danny with his cigarette. "You don't see that too much in guys in your line of work."

"Only the best ones have the sense of humor. Really, it's on our job description." Danny smiled at his own joke, and then became serious. "I think a person in my line of work has to be sarcastic. I think that's why there's so many smartasses on the job. It's the only way to get through your day."

"Yeah. I think being a lawyer calls for the same thing, although it's mostly a pompous, egocentric sideshow on our part."

"Ours, too. Just don't tell anybody."

Michael chuckled. "You know… when I first heard that Jordan was out here, getting in trouble with the law, getting herself arrested, I panicked. When I got on that plane, I had no idea what I was going to find. She and Jason could have been out on the street. She could have been prostituting herself or … slowly killing herself with drugs, alcohol, anything really. And Jason… I didn't even know if he had survived all this or if Jordan had even taken him with her, or if he was somewhere else with some other relative or strange or thug or…" A remainder of the pain and worry clouded Michael's eyes. "I'd always worried… always. But I guess I always hoped that they were okay. That somehow – even if I couldn't find them – other people had taken care of them. When I got this message, it confirmed that something had gone horribly wrong. It wasn't easy searching for years… People support you, but they get tired, especially when you don't find anything at all. My greatest fear was that everyone was right. I could look all I wanted, and I'd still be too late to save them."

Danny sipped his drink, focusing on Michael as he spoke.

"Then," Michael said. "I found out that Jason and Jordan had been living at an orphanage. It made me furious at first, but at least they were alive. At least their needs were being met. I thought… I really thought I was finally going to see them again. Then, the minute I get here, poof." Michael made a fist and flicked it open in the air. "Just like that, they're gone. No one knows where they are or if they'll ever find them again." Michael shook his head, a frown creasing against his face. "I just about lost it. I felt like I was starting all over. That someone had taken them, and…" Michael looked to Danny again. "But… then I met you and Agent Fitzgerald, Agent Spade, and Sr. Rachel. I realized that they did have people who were looking out for them and who wanted to bring them home. Danny, you always talk about how lucky Jordan and Jason are to have me. I mean, to all of you I must be like a ghost, right? Coming out from nowhere, libel to disappear just as fast, huh?"

Danny's grin moved to the side of his face. "We have a betting pool going. We thought we'd wait until you got more comfortable to tell you."

"What's your money on? Ghost or human?"

"Vampire actually. I only saw you at night for awhile, remember?"

Michael smiled at that. "Well, it's daytime now…but…" He cleared his throat. "I came out of nowhere. I'd been looking for years, trying to locate them, but it's you and Rachel that have been looking after my niece and nephew. Jordan and Jason are lucky to have me. I'm lucky to have found them. But we never could have done this, if it wasn't for you or Rachel. I appreciate everything you've done in my absence… I know the court proceedings are going to start up soon, and I know things are going to get intense and stressful – they always do in cases like this. I really do appreciate everything you've done, even if it might seem like that gets forgotten sometimes."

Danny muted his smile, but it was difficult. His job was a thankless one, so much so that when he was thanked, he felt a little uncomfortable. "We all need to move on," he said. "Sometimes it should be forgotten. But thank you."

"You're welcome."

Danny sat back with a sigh. "So, what after this? Do I get to go somewhere with candlelight? We have a nice steak dinner…" he joked.

"Hey, I don't like you that much."

Danny laughed. "Probably for the best. With this trial coming up, we don't want that getting out in the papers. I'm going to have to behave myself."

Michael smirked. "It's that difficult, huh?"

"More difficult than it looks."

"So that's why you and Jordan get along so well."

Danny laughed. "Yeah, we have that in common."

After Danny said that, Lois shuffled back from the kitchen, balancing two plates of food in her hands. "Here you go, boys." She set Danny's order down in front of Michael and visa versa with a perfunctory warning, "Plates're hot. Anything else I can get for you?"

"No, we're good," Danny said. "Thank you."

Lois' forced smile made one more brief appearance, and then she shuffled back again to resume her conversation with the cook.

The two of them dug into their breakfast, and a few minutes later Michael asked, "How's your food?"

Danny ate another piece of bacon and shrugged. "Hey, it's everything I thought it would be."

The two finished their meal and paid the bill, leaving quite a large tip for Lois. Then, it was back to work. Jordan's trial was now scheduled to take place in less than two weeks, and while they were in good spirits, there would be many more late nights ahead of them. Jordan had proven that she could escape out of any prison or placement she found herself in, but this time there would be no escaping the consequences of her actions.


	82. Into the Sun

I want to thank anmodo and Mariel3 for their reviews on my Lost fan-fic. They reminded me that I still have yet to officially finish this story. I think I have it down to three or four more chapters, and it will be complete. Thanks for reading!

(x)

_Three weeks later…_

Danny strode into the building with a singular purpose. At the double doors, he reached into his pocket for his key-card. The card pressed against the security scanner and the doors opened wide with a muted "beep". Danny walked inside and shared a smile with the receptionist.

"Hey, Danny," she said. "We haven't seen you here in awhile."

"At least a week, right?" He rapped his fingers on her desktop.

"What's been keeping you away?"

"The man," Danny said as he breezed by and then raised his voice, "He's keeps me busy."

If Danny had turned around, he would have seen the receptionist smile and shake her head. But he continued forward at a quick pace, through the walkway in 'Definitions' the private gym and health spa on the Upper East Side that was open to federal employees exclusively. Danny entered into the men's locker room. For Danny, locker rooms held memories of cracked tiles, metal lockers that never quite closed right, dirty gym shorts, high school fist fights, and bad B.O. Definitions gym and health spa's changing room looked more like a hotel suite that a high school locker room. Maroon plush carpeting and posh furnishing blanketed the room, along with dark cherry locker stalls that could have easily fit two unfortunate freshmen instead of just one. There were showers outfitted with shampoo, conditioner, and other products, as well as not one but three saunas for its patrons. If you still felt sore after your work-out, you could always relax in the back massage chairs or the hot tub, complements of your Federal government. Danny often lamented the long hours, weekend, and over-time that he put in at his job, but when you did get a chance to relax, the New York governor's office wanted to make sure that you did so in style.

Danny reached his locker, changed out of his business suit and tie, threw on an exercise shirt and shorts, and laced up his sneakers. He stretched out his arms and wa;led out into the gym. Danny headed to the studio and did a series of warm up exercises: push-ups, sit-ups, jumping jacks, and routines that incorporated his training at Quantico. Danny spent some time on the treadmill, and then headed to the weight-room. As he pressed his forearms into the plush cushions to lift the weights behind him, he realized that the receptionist had been right about one thing. They hadn't seen him here in awhile, and now he could feel it.

"You know," a familiar voice said behind him.

Danny let the weights fall back and twisted around to see Martin standing there. Martin looked to him with his cat-just-ate-the-canary-grin and pointed to the weights, "If you just put on five or ten more pounds, your face can go from red to purple."

Danny let loose a laugh. He picked up a stark white towel and mopped the sweat from his forehead away from his face. His breath still hitched when he said, "That right, huh?"

"Oh yeah. Trust me. I've seen it happen."

"Purple's not my color."

"Yeah, mine either. Thank God I wasn't in college for the '80s." Martin sat down on the weight machine next to Danny's. Martin had on a blue t-shirt that said "Quantico" across the front and had a v-neck line of sweat matted on the front.

Danny tossed the towel, now wet with sweat, across his shoulder. "You off today?"

Martin nodded. "Well, technically," he amended.

Danny smirked and nodded knowingly. Such was the life of the on-call FBI agent. "Exactly. I'm there with you, man."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Jack told me to take the morning off after last night."

"I hear you guys were there late, and by that I mean, early."

"Three hours," Danny accentuated. "Got him to confess though."

A man with graying hair and a dignified air about him walked into the weight room. Martin stood up slowly, and both he and Danny nodded a 'good morning' to the man. "Your honor," Danny said.

The judge nodded back with a thin smile and walked into the back of the weight room.

Once he passed by, Martin nodded to Danny. "So got any big plans for your time off?"

Danny snorted a laugh and pointed around him. "Only if one of these ladies smiles back." A young woman with her brown hair swept back in a clean ponytail passed Danny and he flashed her a smile for practice. But if she saw him, she didn't react. Danny glanced to Martin and scratched the back of his neck. "I blame the IPod," he said.

Martin said. "That's okay. These girls can probably break us in half, right?"

Danny took a look at the same girl as she started lifting weights, exactly the same amount as he'd been lifting. Only she wasn't breaking a sweat.

"Sounds good to me," Danny murmured and then said, "What'd you have for breakfast?"

"One of those McGriddles," Martin said.

Danny shook his head.

Martin grinned a little and said, "If you eat it too fast, it makes it a little hard to breathe afterward."

"You know that is one of the first signs that your body is having a heart attack."

Martin patted his chest. "Don't worry. I can handle it."

"Let me know when you're done if you want to get some real food," Danny said. "I'm hitting the showers."

Martin sat back down at the weight machine. "I'm gonna do a few more sets. I'll be done in a few though."

"Sounds good," Danny said. "See ya later."

"Yeah, see ya." Martin pushed out a deep breath, focused, and pulled down on the weight bar.

(x)

About an hour later, the two men had walked downstairs from the gym, down the street, and out into the East Village. As they walked through the downtown area, the clouds began to thin and the late morning sun shone down hard upon the streets and vendors. It had just rained the night before, and the still-damp asphalt of the street and concrete of the sidewalk reflected the sunlight. Now dressed in his standard suit and tie, Danny pulled his sunglasses out from his pocket and placed them over his eyes, and Martin followed suit. The two walked with confidence down the street. They were the pure definition of super smooth. Just ask them. They'd tell you. Danny smiled at the pretty women on the street, because they made him feel pleasantly male, and he smiled at the other women too, because he was having a good day.

After some mild debate, Martin and Danny decided to go to The Orchard, a restaurant that got its bread products next door from the Clinton Street Bakery. Martin had been reading up on Zagat's, and the restaurant had been top-rated for its brunch menu. The wait wasn't quite as long as they thought it would be, and the two were seated outside in a garden area next to the street.

They were handed their menus, and the waitress took their drink orders. Martin paused and appeared to change his mind while ordering a drink. Danny got the feeling that he might have ordered a glass of wine with his meal, if Danny hadn't been there. He appreciated it when Martin ordered an ice water and a glass of iced tea.

Under the shade of a lattice covered with ivy, Danny removed his sunglasses and set them atop his hair, still damp with water and gel. He pushed up the sleeves of his work shirt, loosened his tie, and sat back in his chair to look out onto the intersection of Clinton and Stanton streets. The square was alive with activity and people bustling in and out of the famous bakery. Danny eyed the people on the square as they came and went and waited in line and answered their cell phones. People told him that stars, actors, and celebrities frequented the Upper East Side, especially its bakeries. Danny never had been good at recognizing celebrities though, and even if they had been there, he saw no one of consequence.

Danny turned back to Martin, who had also removed his sunglasses, and Martin blinked and said, "I never got a chance to ask you. How'd did court go the other day with Jordan?"

"It went about like we expected it to. The judge got the court report on time, so she was able to meet with Michael Aderes before he even arrived in court. She kept Jordan's sentence in standing, which we also expected."

"She's still at Northeast, huh?"

Danny nodded. "But the judge court ordered that Jordan be given weekend passes to stay with her uncle and Jason in Maine, which is what we had been asking for."

"Wow. And who's paying for that?"

"You think Children's Welfare is paying for that? Michael is. They don't give out reimbursement checks for things like that either."

Martin let off a low whistle. "Now that's dedication."

"Some weekends he's also come down here. So they'll go back and forth to see each other for three months, until their next court date."

"Three months. That's an weird period of time."

"Children's welfare. Their court runs on three month intervals."

"Well, that's good. That they got what they wanted, right?"

Danny smiled a little. "It's what's best for everyone I think. Jordan needs time to get to know her uncle. Michael and I were talking at a diner a few weeks ago, and even he admitted that it seemed like he'd dropped out of the sky like the Archangel Gabriel. They've got to re-connect."

"Three months ought to give them some time."

Their drinks arrived, and they thanked the waitress. Danny took a swig of his ice water and set it back down on the table top. He paused and licked his lips in thought. Then he said, "You know all this going back and forth to court. For our job, for Jordan… It's got me thinking about …" Danny pointed his finger back and forth between him and Martin. "The hearing we might get."

Martin sighed out an uncertain sigh and patted his lips. "Yeah, the one we might get. We haven't heard anything," he said. "You know, sometimes no news is good news."

Danny shrugged his shoulders. "And sometimes it's not. I feel like every time I turn around I've got an OPR planning a cookout and I'm the barbeque."

Martin raised his eyebrows as if to say 'and who's fault is that?' but he was smart enough not to speak it.

Danny shook his head and stared at Martin. "I just don't want it to happen again."

"You think you're the only one?"

Danny smirked a little to lessen the tension. "I know," he said. "I know we've got a good gig after all this selling shoes, maybe a couple pumps on the side."

Martin chuckled.

Danny finished, "But I think if either of us are going to get anywhere, we have to tone the power plays down to a minimum."

"I got news for us. Working for Jack Malone, I don't think we have a choice."

"You got a point there," Danny said. "Speaking of which, how's things going in that area?"

"He's been letting me bring paperwork from downstairs to upstairs. Sometimes I get to go out in the field with a chaperone."

Danny looked at Martin and shared with him a joyless smile, one that said to him that they were both in the same sad situation together. "We've both been in that doghouse before. We'll get out again."

"I'm thinking of installing some light fixtures," Martin said, staring off. "Maybe a couch."

Danny laughed at Martin's joke.

"I figure I may as well get comfortable," he added.

In almost no time at all, their food arrived. Martin and Danny spent the afternoon discussing much less stressful topics: the more entertaining of their office's antics, open cases, club scenes, female celebrities, pick-up strategies, and the like. When their bill came, they split the cost and lounged in the restaurant, finishing off their drinks.

"I hear Salma Hayek's going to be in the greater New York area," Martin said.

"Oh really?"

Martin grinned. "I thought she might be your type."

"Oh what? Because she's Latina? You make that assumption?"

"Hey. It's not racial profiling if it's an accurate profile."

Danny smiled. "Salma Hayek in the greater New York area. If she got lost, I could find her."

"Use your spidey senses?"

"That's what I was thinking."

"Or you could just call her with the number you're gonna get from her."

Danny was geared up and ready for his next comeback, when his cell phone rang loudly at his side. As he reached down to pick it up, Martin's cell phone also rang and vibrated across the restaurant table. Danny answered his phone, "Special Agent Taylor. … Hey Jack. Yeah … You got it. We're on our way."

Martin and Danny shared a glance, as if to say 'no rest for the weary'. They left a tip, and in no time at all, they were back in the city and back on their next case.


	83. The Moment

Another year, another chapter, right? :) Thank you for the reviews everyone! I hope you all are doing well!

(x)

Danny's dress shoes scraped like chalk against the sidewalk. He carried a Styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand and kept a thick manila folder pinned at his side. Three months had seemed like such a long, extensive period of time when Danny heard Jordan's sentence in court. One side of Danny, the side most influenced by his own childhood, felt Jordan's pain at being caught, imprisoned away from society, and sentenced to serve three more months trapped inside Northeast Detention.

The other more rational side of Danny Taylor understood that the time was necessary for Jordan to pay back her debt to society and for Jordan and her brother to gradually grow closer to her uncle. It was time that Mike needed to fully realize the dedication he was making to them, by asking the courts to be licensed as their foster parent. Danny also knew that they all needed time to get back into the daily grind of their normal lives – that grind that left a person feeling quiet and bored and normal. A grind never appreciated until its absence. That was the side that caused Danny to give Jordan lectures about responsibility, criminal consequences, and keys and jail cell ceilings.

The days passed, the sun rose and set, cases were opened and closed, and all at once, Jordan's next court date arrived. The days brought on the same mild surprise Danny felt in his work life, when he realized reports were due or criminals sentenced decades earlier were to be released from prison.

Danny briskly ascended the steps of the New York City Bronx Family Court building. The Bronx's Court Building was the least remarkable of the court buildings in the city. The building had six floors, with only four open to the general public. The first four levels were broken down into Family Court, Juvenile Court, Civil Court, and Criminal Court.

Danny passed through security and padded down the stairs to the lowest level. He passed by dark red upholstered chairs and light brown carpeting. He walked straight until he reached a large electronic board that held each judge's name and their corresponding courtroom. The board always reminded Danny of incoming flights at the airport. He often imagined the judges in their robes lifting off from runways and landing on platforms.

Judge Dale Florio.

JM-15.

A little involuntary frown quirked onto Danny's face. In this life there were firm judges. There were tough judges. There were brutal judges, and then there was Judge Florio.

Danny made his way to JM-15 and sat outside the courtroom. He glanced down at his watch. As always New York subways only ran on time when you didn't expect them to. He was at least a half hour early and the first one by the courtroom.

With little to look at and nothing to do, it didn't take long for Danny to wander into Florio's courtroom. Danny pushed open one of the double doors, but when he looked to his right, he found that he wasn't alone. A woman with a lanyard draped around her neck looked over at Danny. She smiled at him. "Good morning."

Danny's first response whenever he saw a new face in the courtroom was naturally to tense up and prepare Jordan's defense. It was an unnecessary reaction in many respects, but a new person could just as easily be there to aid Jordan's case as they could to sabotage it. There'd been enough of that brand of surprises in this case to last Danny a lifetime, and he wasn't about to take his chances on more.

"Good morning." He extended his hand and the woman shook it. "I'm Special Agent Danny Taylor with the FBI."

The woman's eyes widened just a little. Then she relaxed. "Oh, right. For Jordan."

"And you're here for…?" He tried to catch a glimpse of her lanyard.

"Jason," she said. "I'm Kristy Parker. His new social worker with Girls and Boys Town. We're the agency who's licensing Michael Aderes as his kinship parent."

"I thought he was with Lauren."

"He was," she said quickly. "Um, Lauren left the agency a few months ago. I was hired after she left."

"Really? Why did she leave?"

"It wasn't because of Jason or anything. Or any of her other cases, I don't think." She cracked a little smile and shrugged. "They tell me that social work means 'alarming job turnover' in French."

Danny managed a smile at that. "I haven't heard that one yet."

"It's a bad joke, but it's the joke I've got today."

Danny studied her and he found himself slipping into profiling mode. Kristy wore a tan pantsuit, but it looked out of place on her. He could see a scar on her nose where she used to have a nose ring. Her skin was tanned and her hair was dyed an unearthly brownish red. All signs of a rebel at heart. She was overweight, but nothing a few months with a personal trainer couldn't clean up. She had a fresh-looking complexion and a pretty face. All those factors put together helped him pick an age. Danny guessed that she was somewhere in the range of twenty-three to twenty-eight. Young enough to still be carded on weekends and young enough to be offended by it. Which all boiled down to a conclusion: this woman – no more than a girl really – meant them no harm.

But that wasn't all that Danny needed to know. "Have you read all the documentation on the case?" he asked her.

"If it was in Jason's chart, I read it."

"Any thoughts on how today's hearing is going to proceed?"

"Well." Kristy scratched her head, looked skyward, and then said, "All major players considered? You've got Jason, almost four years old, who has already started preschool at St. Luke's Church. You've got an uncle who has a good income, a steady job, good references, a two-story home in Maine – and I think – a very nice smile that makes people trust him." She quirked her own smile but then went serious again. "He'll make sure Jason goes to a good school, makes the right friends, and has everything a four-year-old should have. With Jason? It's open and shut. As long as Mr. Aderes finishes his foster parent training and doesn't have any surprises on his criminal background, the kid's going to Maine."

Danny waited for it. Then said, "But?"

"But then there's Jordan. She's the wild card."

She always was. "Between you and me, so's Judge Florio."

"Yeah. We'll have to see what kind of day she's having."

As Kristy had been talking, other lawyers and social workers filtered into the courtroom. One of the lawyers walked up to her, "Hey, Kris. You got the last court order on you?"

"Yeah. Why? You need a copy?"

"Yeah, and I need one before Florio leaves her chambers."

Kristy turned to Danny with a small smile before following after the lawyer. "Looks like there's a copy machine in my future. Nice to meet you, Agent Taylor."

"Likewise."

Danny shook his head as the girl followed the lawyer out of the courtroom. Another day, another social worker. Danny recalled that rate of 'alarming turnover' she mentioned all too well…

"Hey, what are you doing here?"

Danny turned around, to see Mike with his briefcase tucked under his arm, a runningback in Armani. Michael continued, "Shouldn't you be putting a stop to federal crime or something?"

"I told all the people in greater New York City area to behave themselves. No one gets to go missing until I'm back at work."

Mike smoothed down his tie and took a seat next to Danny. "Oh yeah? How's that workin' out for you?"

"About the same as it always does." Danny checked his phone. "But so far so good."

The doors in the back opened wide and Jordan entered the courtroom with her probation officer walking beside her. Jordan's hair and makeup had been done, and she walked with her head held high. The detention center sent Jordan to court in clean trousers and a starched white shirt, and Danny was glad to see they forewent the handcuffs. Danny and Mike both stood up as she walked up to them.

"Hey, kiddo," Mike murmured.

Jordan gave her uncle a big hug. "Hey."

"How are you doing? You doing okay?"

"Yeah."

Mike narrowed his eyes at her. "You sure? You look nervous?"

Jordan managed a laugh. "Nah. Not me."

"Yeah, I didn't think so." Mike patted her back.

Jordan waved. "Hey, Danny."

Danny winked at her. "Hey."

Mike left to accompany Jordan, and Jordan's probation officer ushered her to the front of the courtroom where the three of them took their seats at the front. The occupants of the room only had a few minutes to settle, and then the dark mahogany doors to the judge's chambers burst open. A petite woman in her late fifties with chopped short gray hair and a turned up nose breezed into the courtroom, the arms of her black robes flaring out behind her.

"All rise for the Honorable Judge Florio."

A clamor rose as the occupants of the courtroom took to their feet.

Florio climbed up to her podium and held up her hand. "You may be seated."

Which was followed by the clamor of sitting back down.

The Bailiff announced. "Case D4225. Coliandri in session."

Judge Florio took a seat and addressed the courtroom, "How is everyone this morning?"

A cacophony of "Fine, Your Honor" and "Good, Your Honor" and "Doing well, Your Honor" blended all together.

"Very good. Okay, first let's hear about Jason Coliandri. How is he doing?"

At the judge's behest, Kristy the social worker stood and presented Jason's current state, physically, emotionally, and developmentally. She reported that Jason was on track, making friends at his preschool and interacting appropriately with his uncle during visits. The lawyer verified the information, and the other professionals involved in Jason's case responded with similar observations.

Judge Florio unhooked her wire spectacles from where they hung on her robe and placed them on the bridge of her nose. She leafed through the papers in front of her, and then she stared up over her spectacles. "Hello, Jordan."

"Good morning, your honor."

Florio sniffed and peered over the pages. "It says here in the court report I'm reading that you missed your last therapy session."

Jordan cringed. "Yes, your honor."

"It also says that you asked your probation officer to reschedule the appointment and that you've moved up two levels at Northeast since our last court hearing." Florio took off her glasses and set down the court order.

Jordan's shoulders relaxed. "Yes, your honor."

"That's not an easy thing to do at a facility like Northeast Detention. Would you agree?"

"Yes. I mean. I mean, no, it's not. Thank you."

Judge Florio appraised Jordan and squinted her eyes. "Last time you were here, do you remember what Mr. Aderes and your social worker talked about?"

Jordan's eyes widened and she looked to both her social worker and her uncle. It was a look Danny knew too well. _Bail me out, bail me out! _But neither responded to her deer-in-the-headlights stare, and Judge Florio focused her gaze singularly at Jordan.

So Jordan tried on an answer. "We talked about responsibility. Taking responsibility for actions."

The judge curtly nodded. "That was one of the things we talked about. You do understand that this court doesn't decide your criminal charges. That's for criminal court. This court only decides your goal for children's welfare and what's in your best interest as a ward of the state."

Jordan nodded back solemnly.

The judge turned to Michael. "I see you and Mr. Gayle have requested that Jordan's goal be changed to guardianship should she be given permission to leave the state."

He cleared his throat and replied, "Yes, your honor."

"In the report it states that you believe – pending good behavior – Jordan is of sound mind to leave the state and be moved to a holding facility in … Bangor, Maine."

Her social worker – an older African American man who also wore spectacles – replied, "That's correct, your honor. Her therapist verified that in a report I had faxed to your office."

The judge looked to Jordan and then to Michael. "I understand that you are Jordan's uncle as well as her lawyer."

Michael smiled tentatively and said, "Yes, your honor."

"Those are rare circumstances, even by the New York City court's standards." Her gaze turned to Jordan. "Jordan, despite these favorable circumstances, you understand that you must complete the program at Northeast Detention and move through the last three levels in order to be released to a facility in Maine."

"Yes," she answered.

"And that means you must attend all your therapy sessions, all meetings with your probation officer, and exhibit exemplary behavior with your peers and the faculty at Northeast Detention."

"Yes, your honor. I do understand."

Judge Florio paused and pushed her microphone out of the way. She leaned down and asked in a softer voice, meant just for Jordan. "Do you want to go live with your younger brother and your uncle once he is licensed?"

Jordan's eyes shown when she said, "Yes, your honor."

"Mr. Aderes? Do you want your niece and your nephew to come live with you in Maine and do you want to become their legal guardian?"

Michael breathed a soft sigh and said, "More than anything, your honor."

Judge Florio gave that curt nod. "Then Jordan's goal will be changed to guardianship with her biological uncle."

Jordan gasped and her face broke out into the widest smile.

The judge addressed Kristy. "Ms. Parker, when will Mr. Aderes be licensed as a foster parent through your agency?"

Kristy answered immediately, "The licensing coordinator in our Bangor office has projected that Mr. Aderes will be licensed in one month's time, pending his completion of foster parent training."

"Very well," Florio said. "In accordance with the recommendations of the court, Jordan Coliandri will be moved to Bangor, Maine pending her completion of the program at Northeastern Detention and permission from the juvenile court." She banged the gavel and then stood up at her podium.

The Bailiff stood. "All rise as Judge Florio exits the court."

Everyone in the room shot up to their feet, and Judge Florio disappeared back into her chambers, her robes billowing behind her in a flourish, just as quickly as she arrived.

Michael's face had broken into a grin very similar to Jordan's. He turned around to face Danny, and Danny extended his hand to Mike. The man shook his hand so tightly that Danny thought he might damn well crush it in his grip. "Good job, Mike," Danny said.

"Thank you," Michael said. And he faced forward, whispering, "Thank you."

Standing beside him, Jordan sent a happy, hopeful gaze straight for her uncle. Then, she turned her gaze to Danny. The two shared in a look of pure happiness, one that Danny had never seen on Jordan's face until that very moment. It was one he always hoped for, but feared that he might never see. And that was the moment when Danny knew she would be okay.


	84. Chinese Food and Horror Movies

Thanks for the reviews anmodo and Jennifoofighter! It's easy to stick with this story, even for years, with readers like you.

(x)

_Two months later..._

"Oh, no, don't go in there," Jordan said, her anxiety heightening. "I wouldn't go in there if I was you."

Jordan sat with Danny in the common room at Northeast Detention. The room was sparsely – and generically – decorated with blue chairs and couches and a lightweight oak coffee table, most likely on sale from IKEA. Lights out for all inhabitants of the detention center was midnight on the weekends, and no one was allowed in the common room after ten 'o clock. The clock read ten thirty, and in the common room for Danny and Jordan it was certainly lights-on. Sometimes it was nice to have a badge.

The actress in the horror film tiptoed into the darkened house. She frantically flicked the light switch up and down, but the house remained deathly dark.

"See." Jordan said, shaking her head. "I told you not to go in there. Oh, don't go up the stairs!"

Watching the horror film, Danny shook his head in turn. He rooted through his chicken fried rice with chopsticks. "Now I don't even feel bad for her. First rule of surviving a horror movie: never go up the stairs."

"I thought the first rule was don't go searching to see what that noise was in a house where you can't turn on the lights."

Danny sat back against the couch. "Either way. I rest my case. If she's not going to listen to the audience?" He shrugged. "I can't help her. Tiffany's on her own on this one."

On screen, the door burst open and the killer, dressed in black and a hockey mask, brandished a long steak knife. The screen cut back to Tiffany who let off a high-pitched scream, and the killer gave chase.

Jordan picked up her take-out carton of shrimp lo-mein and ate a few of the noodles, before saying, "Oh, she's not even running that fast. Booooo! Get off the stage!"

Danny chuckled. He shook a finger at the actress. "She shouldn't have been drinking all that alcohol while she was under-aged. I'm telling you. It slows down those reflexes."

"Yeah," Jordan reluctantly agreed. "I guess if you do that in a horror movie, you've got it coming to you."

At the end of the film, the heroine gained control of the knife and used it against the killer herself. Daybreak broke against the skyline and Tiffany turned around the call the police on her cell phone. But when the call ended, Tiffany looked back to find the killer had once again escaped. The movie ended but not before cutting back to a trail of footsteps leading into the depths of the forest.

The credits rolled and Jordan said, "Ah, the promise of yet another sequel."

Danny kicked back a bottle of root beer and sat up straighter on the couch. "I felt kind of bad for Natalie. She seemed pretty put together."

Jordan shook her head. "She shouldn't have gone out in the woods to make out with Tyler. Easy girls are expendable in these movies."

Danny tried not to laugh too hard. He swallowed crooked. It was a trick he'd learned in parochial schools about a thousand years ago. It was the only foolproof way of laughing he had ever found. "Are you kidding? Girls are the only ones who survive these movies. Us guys? We never make it out alive."

"That's not true. Sometimes you do."

"Okay, name me a movie. Which horror movie has a guy survived in?"

"Randy in Scream."

Danny shook his head and took another swig of his soda. "Uh-uh. That doesn't count. He died in the sequel, remember?"

"Okay, then Dewey in Scream. All three movies."

Danny weighed his hands back and forth, and then he allowed it. "Well, he was in law enforcement. We're just good like that." He reached across the coffee table to look at the other DVDs he'd brought with him, at Jordan's behest. "We've got another one. Maybe one of the guys'll survive in this one."

Jordan stretched and let off a yawn. "My eyes are getting all watery from watching too much TV."

Danny set down the DVD. "Are you packed yet?"

"Yeah, basically. They've got my bag downstairs. I still have a couple books and my hairbrush and my toothbrush and stuff like that. But that can all fit in my bookbag." She smirked. "It's not like I've got that many things to pack around here, you know."

"You made sure transportation is set up? You talked to your probation officer?"

"Mr. Mayes will pick me up at 11:30 to take me to the airport. We'll get there two hours ahead of time."

"Did you call your uncle?"

Jordan heaved a frustrated sigh. "Yes, I called my uncle! Jesus, who are you? Mary Poppins? You gonna make sure I clean my room before I leave?"

"I'll leave that to Mr. Mayes." Danny had both his arms resting on the top of the couch. He opened up his palms. "So what do you think? Are you ready to leave this place tomorrow?"

The answer was instant. "Hell yes."

"Yeah? Me too. I'm ready to visit you in a place that's a little less restrictive." Then he added under his breath as an afterthought, "A lot further away though."

Jordan asked, "Are they gonna put me in cuffs tomorrow?"

"I asked them not to. If they do, I'll set things straight." It didn't hurt to have contacts. It also didn't hurt to know Jack Malone or Martin for that matter, whose contacts had been known to stretch all the way to Bangor, Maine and further if Danny so desired.

Sitting on the other end of the couch, Jordan bit her lip and stared down at her hands, resting on her knees. "I just want it to be different, you know?"

Danny shifted on the couch so that he was facing her. "That's up to you," he said. "But you've made that happen already. You've made the difference. You worked hard, and you got yourself out of this place. You can do it again. This time, you won't be leaving to go to another group home. You'll be leaving to go home, to your uncle's."

A small smile creased its way across Jordan's face. Many times hopeful words like that had little to no effect on Jordan, but this time was different. This time, she believed him.

Jordan sniffed, sat up, and yanked up a box of take-out. "This lo mein is way too cold to eat." She pointed to the backroom where there was a small kitchen with a microwave and sink. "I'm gonna heat it up. You want me to put yours in?"

Danny looked down at the rice and said, "Yeah. Why not? Thanks."

Jordan picked it up and walked across the room. "I can't believe I'm still hungry."

"That's the thing about Chinese food," Danny said. "No matter how much you eat, in another hour you want more."

"Oh yeah?" She called from the backroom and put both containers into the microwave. "Why is that?"

"No one knows," Danny said. "One of the mysteries of the universe, kiddo."

Jordan laughed. "Yeah. Just like why guys never survive horror movies."

Danny and Jordan put in the next slasher film, and they slowly finished off the rest of the Chinese food. In the course of the movie, Danny and Jordan added a few more rules to the list of how one could survive a horror film. Never camp or build homes in Indian burial grounds. Don't run after the dog; it can take care of itself. If the only people living in a town are children with blonde hair and blue eyes, run away; they are there to eat you. Ask _why_ the estate is being sold for so cheap. If it's still dark out, the killer is still alive, and the monster is _always _behind you.

Jordan and Danny sat down on the floor so that they were level to the coffee table and wrote down some of the rules on computer paper. Jordan made a solemn declaration that she would post them online right after the movie was over. However, before the film was even half over, Jordan fell asleep, still sitting on the floor with her head and back against the couch.

Danny was still talking to her, "Oh, there's another one. Do not under any circumstances go into the darkroom alone to check on your pictures-"

Danny stopped short when he saw Jordan slumped backward. Her head was propped up against the cushions of the couch, and her stomach rose up and down rythmically. He smirked at her and shook his head. He moved over a little closer to nudge her awake, but Jordan turned in her sleep and instinctively leaned her head against his shoulder. Danny rolled his eyes a little, but obliged her. He looped an arm around her shoulders and stayed with her in the common room, until the movie ended.

It was ten past midnight when he gently woke her up. He led her back to her room in the detention center, instructing her to get some sleep. She had a big day ahead of her.


	85. Saying Good Bye

Anmodo: I can't thank you enough for seeing this story from beginning to end with me. :D

I can't thank all you other readers out there enough either! After this chapter, there will only be two more.

(x)

Danny stepped through the automatic doors and into the U.S. Airways terminal at LaGuardia National Airport. He took off his sunglasses and slipped them into his jacket pocket, and he stood, waiting just outside the check-in line.

He began to lose himself in the mind-numbing bustle of the airport. Families toting children, professionals with carry-on bags, teenagers zoned into their iPods, and elderly couples all waited to check-in their bags and receive their boarding passes from the attendants. Janitors moved past, pushing trashcans, and U.S. airways employees ran back and forth, attending to those lost or confused by the constant activity of the airport. An echoing voice over the intercom alerted all visitors to the airport that should they see an unattended bag to please bring it to the attention of airport security.

An I.C.E. agent, wearing a suit and tie much like Danny's, was just leaving the line with boarding pass in hand. The agent noticed him, flinched in surprise, and waved. "Hey, Taylor."

The two shook hands. "Have a good flight, my man."

"Thanks. I kept wondering when I'd run into you."

Danny grinned and shrugged. "Two ships in the night."

"Yeah. Good to see you."

"You, too."

Danny resumed his stance at the front of the check-in terminal. He stood there waiting only a few minutes more before a familiar face broke through the crowd. Danny smiled heartily and paced towards Rachel. When he reached her, he scooped her up in a hug. "Hey, mamacita."

"Hey, yourself," Rachel said, smiling. She wore heels, a flowered skirt, and a light blue V-neck that subtly showed off her figure. "How's things going?"

"Working as usual." He shrugged. "Like I like to do, I guess. I took off a couple hours to come down here. How about you? How's-?"

Before Danny could finish his question, Rachel said, "Good. Things have been good."

Danny nodded cautiously to her statement. Rachel took her spot beside him, facing the entrance doors of the terminal. "I see you wanted to get here just as early as I did," Danny said.

"That's right," she said. "I didn't want to miss her."

No sooner had the words left her mouth, than Danny saw Michael Aderes stepping off the escalator and onto their floor level. Danny pointed him out to Rachel. "Looks like we're not the only ones."

Michael wore a white polo shirt that pulled across his thick arms and stomach and a pair of khakis. He piled on a heavy carry-on and a large bag that could have held either a laptop or heavy artillery, and as he'd passed through security without incident, it must have been the former. He shook Danny's hand and then Rachel's once he reached them. "Danny. Rachel."

Danny sat back to appraise him.

Michael looked down at his shirt. He smirked. "What? I'm not allowed to wear white after Labor Day?"

"So let me get this straight. Instead of waiting for the people of Northeast Detention to get on a plane and bring Jordan and Jason to you, you come all the way here yourself and bring enough hardware with you to electronically report them to the authorities if they do anything that crosses a line."

"I wouldn't trust my dog with Northeast Detention," Michael mouthed off. "You think I'd trust them with my kids?"

"You have a dog?" Danny asked.

"All right. I wouldn't trust my goldfish with Northeast Detention." He lowered his voice, jokingly, "That better, smartass?"

Rachel nudged Danny. "Look out. He's got your calling card."

Danny shook his head. "I leave it lying around too much."

Rachel turned her attention to Michael. "Jason ought to like that. Having a pet in the house."

"A goldfish," Danny marveled. "I didn't see that in the picture."

Michael shrugged. "It doesn't say much, doesn't eat much. A client's kid gave it to me after a trial once."

"What's its name?" Rachel asked.

Michael hesitated and then answered, "Jaws." Danny started laughing and Michael immediately rose to his goldfish's defense. "The kid liked Shark Week. What was I supposed to do?"

Danny started to say that he wasn't sure what advice he could possibly give him on that front, when a toddler grinning from ear to ear ran straight into Michael's leg. "Uncle Mike!" Jason exclaimed.

"Hey!" The large man lifted up Jason in one foul swoop and had him up in the air, mimicking a superhero in flight.

Jason let off a string of high-pitched, joyous giggles. His uncle brought him back down to solid ground and Jason ran to Danny and then to Rachel for hugs. "Hey!"

"Hey, you," Danny said.

Kristy Parker walked a few feet behind Jason. Today she had her red hair done up with a bright green scarf wrapped around her head. She wore a striped green and black shirt underneath a black blazer, black pants, and multicolored shoes. Also today, she wore her nose-ring. She toted a large black bag with her, along with Jason's suitcase. "Wow, Jason," she said. "Look at all these people that came to see you!"

"I know," he said matter-o-factually. "They're always here."

Kristy contained her laugh, in a fashion that Danny had the night before with Jordan. "Jason just got back from the doctor's office," she told everyone.

"You did?" Michael asked. He looked to Jason. "Were you good?"

"Yes," he said, nodding. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his prize. "I got a lollipop."

"Good job," Michael said, ruffling Jason's hair. "Did they give you a shot?"

Jason showed off his battle scar. "Yes."

"But you were brave, right?" Michael asked.

"Yeah. I was a superhero."

Michael looked up to Kristy. "That something you said to him?"

"Yeah, he's been very into repeating after adults lately. So watch what you say around him," Kristy said. "As you can see, this little guy is the picture of health, but every time one of our children leaves the state, we need to provide documentation."

Rachel shared a knowing smile with Kristy. "But always."

Kristy chuckled. She reached into her bag and produced a folded sheet of paper. She handed it to Michael. "This is a copy of the results of his physical and his PPD test."

"Thank you, ma'am," Michael said.

Kristy took out an entire file from her bag and gave that to Michael as well. "This is a dummy file of his documentation at the office. Inside you'll find court reports, dental and vision documentation, psychological evaluations, and any other paperwork you may need to show our office in Bangor." She flipped open the inside folder. "And here you'll find his birth certificate and his social security card, so that, you know, they'll let him board the plane."

Danny raised his eyebrows, impressed, and Michael blinked before saying, "Thank you."

Kristy smiled. "No problem. Just keep that file to yourself until you get to Bangor." She looked to Jason and then back to Michael. "I think that's all the information that I've got to give you. Is there anything else you need from me?"

"No, I don't think so, Kristy." A smile grew across Michael's face; his hand fell down to Jason's shoulder. "Thank you for taking care of this little guy."

"No, thank you for providing a home for him. A very nice home."

"I've done a lot of renovating," Michael said.

"Yeah," Kristy said. "Especially in your video game collection."

"I'll miss you making those trips out with Jason."

"I will too, actually." Kristy bent down on one knee in front of Jason so that they were at eye level. "Well, I think it's that time."

Jason stopped in his tracks. "Time to say good-bye?"

"Yes. It is time to say good-bye. Just like we talked about." Kristy reached into her bag once more, and she pulled out a small, soft plush teddy bear. "I have something for you. It's a going away present."

Jason took the bear and smiled. "Thank you," he said softly.

"You're welcome. I need you to hold onto this teddy bear because it's a special one," Kristy said. "Bears can be strong and brave. Just like you are." She poked him lightly on the stomach and Jason grinned. "But this bear is soft and quiet, too. So when you're feeling quiet and you want to be by yourself, you can always hug this bear. Just keep him near you, okay?"

Jason nodded. "Okay."

Kristy glanced up at Michael and then back at Jason. "You can hug your uncle, too. You'll need to be talking to him now, like we talked about, right?"

Jason nodded again, blushing as he began to feel self-conscious. "Mmm-hmm."

Kristy grinned. "Sounds good. Now, we talked about how to say good-bye. Do you want me to give you a-"

Jason cut her off and flung himself onto her in a big hug. Kristy returned the hug. Danny watched them from the side. It appeared that Kristy had made a connection with Jason; that would help them as a family when they met their next social worker. Slowly, the people around Jason were teaching him how to trust.

Kristy ran her hand over Jason's head to smooth his hair and stood up to her feet. "Be good for your uncle."

"I will," Jason said.

Kristy winked to Jason, and then turned to Michael. "If you need anything, just give me a call on my cell. My card's in the packet I gave you."

"Thank you, Kristy," Michael said. "I'll call you when we land."

"Perfect." Kristy looked up to regard all of them and said, "It was nice meeting everyone. I'm sure our paths will cross in the future."

Danny smiled. "Let's hope so."

Kristy waved to them, more of a salute than a wave, and then she left the terminal, toting her bag with her. After that, Danny, Rachel, and Michael were quick to focus their attention on Jason, asking him what he packed, his favorite parts about Maine, and how much fun he was going to have once he got to his uncle's house.

Danny asked Michael, "So, renovating, huh? Didn't you talk about that last time you were here? You were adding an addition?"

"Yeah," Michael answered him. "I was thinking about moving into a bigger house, but … I like the one I've got. I got Jason set up in the spare room, and I'm still in the master. But when Jordan comes, I figure she's a teenage girl. She's gonna need a room of her own. They're saying that might not be for awhile, but … I dunno – it looks to me like she's been pulling herself together and fast, too."

"She has been," Danny said. "Every time I go to the center, they're telling me about some other level she passed or a program she finished."

Michael shrugged. "All the more reason I've got people working on that addition. I need to be licensed for two kids, not one. I just need the space."

Rachel smiled. "You better crack the whip on those construction workers."

Michael shook his head. He rubbed his fingers and thumb together. "No whips. Just money. Nothing puts them to work like the almighty dollar."

No sooner had the words left Michael's mouth, than Jason pointed towards the door and yelled, "Jor!"

Jordan called out from across the terminal, "Uncle Mike!"

Michael smiled wide and waved to her from where he stood. Jordan walked alongside her probation officer, the ever-available Mr. Mayes, who had apparently taken head of Danny's request that she arrive without handcuffs. Denton Mayes started with the city around the same time that Jordan came into care. He stood at a solid 6'0" and was clearly no stranger to the gym. He had curly black hair and rarely smiled. But when he did smile, he flashed those pearly whites, and all that was missing was the sparkle and 'ding' of a Crest commercial. The social workers giggled about him whenever he left court, and Danny once overheard them calling him 'Clark Kent' amongst themselves. Much to their disappointment, Mr. Mayes sported his wedding ring in plain sight. Today he also had a carry-on bag, as he would be taking the flight with Jordan.

Jordan toted her wheeled-suitcase behind her and briskly walked towards their group. She'd straightened her hair for the occasion, and she was wearing a simple t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers for the airplane ride. She gave her uncle a hug, and then bent down to hug her brother.

Danny extended his hand to Denton. "Mr. Mayes."

He shook it. "Agent Taylor. Good to see you."

Danny turned to Jordan. "Hey, kiddo. You get some sleep?"

"A little," she said. "I woke up an hour later and wanted more Chinese food."

"What did I tell you," Danny said.

Jordan, Jason, Danny, Rachel and Michael talked amongst themselves and made pleasant conversation with Mr. Mayes for the next few minutes. Then, Mr. Mayes pointed down to his watch and then to the line at security. "We better get a move on if we want to make this flight."

Michael nodded. "I agree. Does everybody have everything they need? All your luggage?"

Jordan and Jason nodded.

"Okay," Michael said. His shoulders dropped and he turned to Rachel and Danny. "I think this is where we'll be leaving you two."

Michael drew in Rachel for a hug and shook Danny's hand. "Thank you," he said, "for all you two have done."

"No, thank you, man," Danny said.

"We'll be in touch," Michael said.

Danny bent down to Jason's level. He ruffled Jason's hair and leaned in as if sharing a secret, "You look after your sister, okay?"

Jason grinned, a smile that lit up his entire face. "Okay."

"C'mere." Danny enveloped Jason in a hug. "You're so good, you know that?"

"Yeah," Jason spoke into Danny's shoulder. "I know."

Beside them, Rachel reached out and moved a strand of hair out of Jordan's eyes. Rachel smiled at her for a long moment, and she started to say something, "Well…" Before she could say another word, Jordan grabbed her in a hard hug.

"Thank you for everything," Jordan said.

Holding her, Rachel swallowed back her tears. She loosened their embrace so she was looking into Jordan's eyes. "You've done what you set out to do here," she said. "You left your imprint."

Jordan smiled, remembering their discussions from religion class. "I guess I'll just have to make my next imprint in Maine."

"Oh, it's more than that," Rachel said. "You leave your imprint here, but New York leaves its imprint…" Rachel lightly put her hand over Jordan's heart. "Here. And you take that with you."

As Jordan stared back at Rachel, she thought about the South Bronx. There was a whole company of outsiders at the orphanage. And when there are enough outsiders in one place, a mystic osmosis takes place and you're inside. Inside where it's warm. Just a little thing, being inside where it's warm, but really such a big thing. Maybe even the most important thing in the world.

Jordan felt at home with Rachel, with Danny, and with Jason and her uncle. That's what had been missing outside of the orphanage in New York City, Jordan decided – simple love. Chris and Bryce had seemed all right at first, but there wasn't much love in them. Because they were too busy being afraid. Love didn't grow very well in a place where there was only fear, just as plants didn't grow very well in a place where it was always dark.

Jordan pursed her lips so that she wouldn't cry. "I'm going to miss you," she told Rachel.

Rachel winked at her and hugged her once more. "That's why the good Lord gave us cell phones." Their hug ended and Rachel squeezed Jordan's hands. "You better call me."

Jordan laughed a little. "I will."

"Okay." With that Rachel bent down to lift up Jason in a hug. "Aww, c'mere you!" Jason let off a row of giggles as he was swept up into the air once more.

As Rachel turned her attention to Jason, Jordan looked up to find Danny casting his smile her way. She grinned back. Jordan looked both nervous and excited, her eyes full with the future, and he was happy for her.

"So, I guess this is it, huh?" Jordan weighed her hands back and forth. "That time when we say our good-byes, but we promise to call and keep in touch."

Danny pretended to check around him. "Well, you've got your ticket, two escorts, and a three-year-old to get on a plane, so I'd say it looks that way. You nervous?"

She shook her head. "Uh-uh," and then she declared, "I have a good feeling about this."

Danny smirked. "We all know what _that_ means."

Jordan playfully punched him in the shoulder. "Hey, it's different this time."

"Exactly," he said. "You've got good people looking out for you. Just remember what I always say. Just be careful-"

"And trust your instincts. Think about Jason," she rattled off in a sing-song voice.

"Well, I know that you'll take care of him."

Jordan paused. "I might let my uncle worry about that for right now," she said carefully. "I think I need to focus more on taking care of myself right now."

The face Danny looked into was no longer the face of a child, but neither had it yet become the face of a woman. Hers was a face in limbo, a face caught perfectly between two well-defined states of being. Danny's smile grew and he said softly, "Atta girl." The two stood there, sharing a smile, and Danny asked, "So... have you got everything you need?"

Jordan nodded. "Yeah." Then she drew in a breath, "Danny. I'm…" Jordan had kept her composure, but now as the time drew to say good-bye, she couldn't form the words. So she used actions instead. Jordan stepped forward and threw her arms around his shoulders.

Danny caught her and held her in his arms. "I know," he said. "I'm gonna miss you, too."

"But we'll call each other," she said, her voice wavering. She sniffed back, and then her voice took on its normal tone. "And you'll come to visit."

"That I will," Danny drew out reassuringly. "C'mon, you didn't think you were getting rid of me that easy, did you?"

Jordan sputtered a laugh. She squeezed him tightly one more time and then let go. Danny rested his hands on her shoulders. "And you call me. Anytime. Okay?"

Jordan brushed away a few tears from under her eyes and managed a smile. "Okay."

"I'm gonna need you around if I'm gonna watch any of the new horror movies with someone." He leaned in so that Rachel could hear him. "It'll be a cold day in the underworld when this one signs up for that."

"Signs up for what?" Rachel immediately countered. Watching his face and looking between the two of them, she caught it. "Oh. No, I think I'll leave the blood, guts, and gore to you two, thank you very much."

Jordan looked between them and she shared a secret smile with Danny. "Make sure she gets out, okay?"

"Jordan!" Rachel exclaimed.

Danny put out his arms. "I'm only one man, chica."

Behind her, Mr. Mayes cleared his throat. He looked down at his watch impatiently. "I'm sorry, everybody," he said. "But we really need to check our bags and get through security."

Jordan hugged Rachel once more. "I'll talk to you soon," she said to both of them.

Danny pulled her in for one more hug. "Be good. Call me when you land."

Jordan had started to walk away from him, when she stopped in her tracks. She doubled back, digging through her beige book-bag. "Danny, I almost forgot. I have something for you." She buried her head inside the bag, searching... until she surfaced. Jordan blew a puff of breath upward to get her hair out of her eyes, and she presented a mix CD to Danny. "I wanted you to have this. You know, just in case you'd miss my taste in music."

Danny blinked. "You made this for me?" He squinted. "How did you do that inside Northeast?"

She winked at him. "I know people."

Danny shook his head, but he was smiling. "Thank you, chica."

"No, thank you," she said, pursing her lips. "For... Just... Thank you."

"You're welcome." He held up the CD. "I'll give this a listen on my ride home."

"You better." With that, Jordan and Jason waved to them as they hurried after their uncle and Jordan's probation officer. "Bye! We'll call you soon!"

Rachel and Danny waved their good-byes. They watched as Michael handed out the boarding passes, and they joined the line for security. As he had on so many occasions, Danny watched the missing children leaving in the arms of their parent, and he smiled. Danny slipped the CD into the inner-pocket of his jacket, and after another few moments, he and Rachel began their walk to the exit.

Danny playfully bumped his shoulder into Rachel's and asked, "So how are you doing?"

Rachel brushed back remnants of tears from her eyes, but sported a smile. "Oh, just fine," she said. "Apart from being entirely emotional."

Danny smiled back. "Yeah, but we knew that going into this."

"Our babies are all grown up," Rachel joked dramatically, "And going to Bangor, Maine."

Danny laughed. "I know. They grow up so fast," he commented.

Rachel smoothed down her hair and tucked flyaway strands behind her ears. "They always do," she added.

"That's right," Danny said. "I forget sometimes that you must be used to this by now."

"You'd think so," Rachel said. "But I think both you and I know that these children were different."

Truer words were never spoken, and Danny couldn't have agreed more. "And now, when you head back, there's an entire legion of foster children waiting for you back at the convent."

Rachel slowed down her walk, and Danny instinctually knew that something was wrong. She stared up at him, and a frown worked its way over her face. He didn't like it when storm clouds gathered, and he certainly didn't like it now. "What is it?" he asked.

"Do you remember the last time I talked to you? About the investigation at the orphanage?"

"Well, yeah," Danny said. He stopped walking altogether and so did Rachel. "You told me that the investigation had been completed. They had no evidence to go on – just like we knew they wouldn't, and so they had to pack up shop. They re-licensed the orphanage. They even brought your number up to fifteen, because of the outstanding job you'd done."

Rachel nodded. "They did. But…" She squared with him. "I've thought about this for a long time, Danny. I love St. Luke's, and I will always love my children. But I can't keep going on with this. I've stepped down."

"What? From running the orphanage?"

Rachel kept her composure. "From running the orphanage," she echoed, "and from continuing as a sister of St. Luke's." She shook her head. "I've called in some favors, and they've moved two other sisters to fill my position at the church. I've gone too long pretending that nothing's wrong. Something is wrong. I just couldn't put my finger on it before."

Danny didn't understand. "Do people know? Does Fr. Jorge know?"

"He knows, Danny. I've been very PC about the entire ordeal. Officially, I'm on sabbatical, until I make a decision about leaving the Church."

Danny frowned. "Rachel, if those people who did the investigation, if they coerced you in any way-"

Rachel cut him off by simple lifting up her hand. "No, it's-it's not like that. This is a choice I've made entirely on my own. I loved those children. I love all my children, but it's like your friend at the NYPD once said. I've no business taking care of an entire convent of children if I haven't been taking care of myself."

Danny reached out and gripped her shoulder. "Rachel, you … you could have called me about this," he said. "I could have helped you through this."

"No," she said. "I know you would have helped me, but this is something that I needed to do on my own."

He looked at her in puzzlement. There was something empty at the bottom of all her words. It was as if he were listening to a saleswoman, a good saleswoman, who believed in her product, but still wanted to make sure you went home with all the brushes or a full set of encyclopedias. "And you said that you're going on sabbatical…?"

Rachel saw it in his face. She seemed to be trying on responses and then discarding them. Finally, she said, "I'll be put into a position where the church feels I'm most needed. Most likely somewhere on the east coast, last they said. Either Pennsylvania or Virginia, depending on the needs of the parish."

Danny stared forward, dumbstruck by what he was hearing. He and Rachel had been talking all this time, discussing matters, and making decisions all based on the idea that Rachel would be here, that she would be at the orphanage. "Rachel, I…"

"I'm sorry, Danny," she said. "I didn't tell you to deceive you in any way. I didn't tell you because I didn't even know myself." Silence stretched out between them, and it was far from the first time. Rachel responded predictably, "I should probably go. I just wanted to let you know." She touched his hand. "I'll talk to you soon, Danny. I promise." And she pulled away.

Danny stood there, an outbreak of emotions coursing through him. He turned to the side as the sound of Rachel's footsteps receded into the noises of the airport.

That is, until he raised his head and ran after her.


	86. Two Ships in the Night

Okay, so I admit it. I was going to wait, but then I couldn't! Here are the last two chapters of Midnight Rescue. I want to thank every person who has read this story, kept me inspired, and give me the drive and focus to finish this. I've had so much fun, and I admit it - I'm not ready for it to be over. But all good things - even this story apparently - must come to an end. Be sure to let me know what you think! And thanks again!

(x)

Danny caught up with Rachel and grabbed her by the arm. "Rachel, wait."

Rachel whirled around to face him. She stood at an awkward angle, her arm still in Danny's grip. "Danny." She shook her head and yanked her arm out of his hand. "What are you doing?"

"What am I doing?" he demanded. "I think I'm the one who should be asking you that question."

"What are you talking about?" she demanded in return.

It was as if Danny hadn't even heard the question. "So that's it?" he asked, throwing open his arms. "You just casually inform me that you've left the Church and that you're leaving St. Luke's. Oh, and that you're leaving the state, too, since I asked."

Rachel pursed her lips, not unlike Jordan had done before. "I just wanted you to know the decision I'd made."

"Oh, really? And just when did you make this decision?"

Rachel tensed and looked around at the other people in the airport. "Danny," she said. "Don't do this to me right now."

Danny in turn looked around, but he did not lower his voice. "Why not? What's wrong with right now?"

At that, Rachel stood up taller and met his intense stare. "We're in an airport," she said, hunching her shoulders. "In the middle of a crowded terminal."

"Don't say it like you didn't plan it that way."

Rachel threw up her hands to her hips and leaned forward. "Plan? I didn't plan any of this."

When she raised her voice, Danny had at least a mind to lead her by the shoulder and off to the side, out of the way of people coming and going from the airport. When they'd moved, he said, "All right, if we can't talk about it now, then when, huh? Until you call me? Because between you and me, you aren't exactly someone who tells me what you're thinking when you're thinking it."

"And why should I?" Rachel demanded. "Do I have to? Is this a new mandate you've put on our relationship?"

Danny pointed a finger at her, opened his mouth to say something in anger, but then stopped himself. Instead, her ran his hand over his hair and continued, "This isn't a 'mandate'. This isn't a new code of conduct I'm proposing. I just want to talk to you before you run out the door after dropping a bombshell on me. Is that too damn much to ask?"

Rachel sighed and said, "I didn't tell you, because I knew you would react this way."

"There! So you did know and you weren't telling me."

Rachel shook her head. He became _impossible_ when he got this way. "Danny, this isn't an interrogation. Don't talk to me like one of your suspects in lockdown." She swallowed back and took a moment to think, and Danny granted her that. When she spoke again, she said, "I… I haven't been able to talk to you, to really talk to you since the investigation ended."

Danny frowned, but he allowed her to continue.

Rachel drew in a breath and said, "When I told you that I was staying and that the orphanage was remaining open, you were just so happy for me. You hadn't been…" She stopped herself and said, "I wanted you to be happy, to be happy with me. I couldn't disappoint you, not after everything that had happened."

A perplexed gaze set into his eyes. "Rachel. What are you talking about?" He laughed, but there was no humor in his voice. "You don't have to worry about disappointing me."

"Yes, I do," she insisted. "I do when you put me up on this pedestal. Like I'm the Virgin Mary or St. Theresa of the Roses or some saintly, ethereal object that can do no moral wrong." Danny fell silent. It seemed that once Rachel got talking and did say what was on her mind, there would be no stopping her. "You talk me up to be this perfect design of a person. You set me up like that, and there's no way I can reach that standard. And it's not fair," she declared.

Danny stepped forward towards her. "Rachel," he said. "I never meant to make you feel that way. I don't put you up on a pedestal." She turned away from him with a huff, but he grabbed her by the shoulders. "Look at me, Rachel. I wouldn't even know where a pedestal should be." His face hardened with resolve. "And if I've done that … it's only been because you have the most good that I've ever seen in a person."

She shook her head. "See. There you go again. That's exactly what I'm talking about."

He smirked and narrowed his gaze, before becoming serious again. "But when I say that, I'm not saying that you're perfect. Now, I know you're not perfect." Rachel flinched and Danny raised his eyebrows and said, "Oh, come on. The way you dump perfectly good food down the drain, just because you don't like leftovers. Or the way you check and re-check and then re-check a door just to make sure it's really locked. Oh, or when you make that right turn at Baxter - on red, I might add - at that one intersection every time we're coming back from the church hall. Even though you know it's a one-way street that leads straight to the freeway, and then we're stuck on it, and that's it – we're going to Upstate New York for the next ten miles, because there's no exit back to the city."

Rachel tried not to let it happen, but a smile began to work its way onto her face.

Danny set his gaze on her. "Or when you freeze up, the minute I want to talk about something more honest or more real than you're ready for." Rachel took that one to heart and began to turn away, but Danny grabbed her by the arm again. "Please don't do that right now."

She looked fragile, and she looked uncomfortable and scared. She tried not to, but Danny had gone and caught her completely off guard. Worse than that, he hadn't let her run from it when she wanted to most. So, with no other recourse, she told him what he was asking for, "Danny, I … I know this thing, this …" She looked for another word, but there wasn't one. "This attraction, that's between us. I've known it for years now. We both have. It's… It's never…" She softened her voice. "It's not a good idea."

Hearing her say it, no matter how she said it, made Danny relax at least a little. "It's never been a good idea," he said.

"Right," she nearly exclaimed. "But you keep pursuing it. I don't know if it's some masochist thing you keep doing to yourself or… or what." Rachel's brow furrowed and she clenched the skin at the bridge of her nose. She hadn't wanted to have this conversation. She had never wanted to have this conversation and not here. "Do you know what it's been like? For me to…"

Rachel's hesitation gave him an opening and Danny spoke quickly. "Yes. Yes, I do know what it's like. Rachel, I've been there, and I've seen you. I know how you think. I know what you think. I know you're worried and you're freaking out right now. You're doing that thing where you back off and start to shut down, and …" Danny shook his head as he looked at her. He fell backwards against the wall and said, "And I know that you're going over it all in your head, and you're asking yourself how it got to this point. You're asking yourself what you did to make this happen. And your heart's racing, and you don't know what to do now. Christ, Rachel. I would know that even if I was on the phone with you, because that's how much I think about you."

Her heart pounded, and Rachel put a hand up to rest on her chest. "No. No, you don't know. You never know, because you don't know the way I feel about you. Because I don't tell you. I've never told you."

Danny leaned in. He rubbed one of her shoulders and looked down.

"And you know why?" she asked. Rachel's eyes widened and her face filled with worry. That was the thought she could no longer conceal from herself. She was finally speaking her mind. She would have spoken her mind sooner, but it would mean that she would have to pin her heart on her sleeve where he could see it. Unfortunately, that meant everyone else would have to see it too.

Danny answered, "Because of your vows. I understand. I've always understood that."

"No," she breathed out. "It was the vows, but it wasn't only because of that." She looked into his eyes and she said, "We don't work, Danny. We have chemistry and we're good people and we care about each other. But just because two people have that doesn't mean that they should be together." She pointed to him. "You're an FBI agent, and you … your job is your life. Say what you want to say, but that's the truth. I would want more. I would want you to be there, and I know that about myself. We could try to make it work, but inside you would always resent me. And I would always resent you for being away. We wouldn't be happy, not in the end."

Danny looked at Rachel as if she'd just lost her mind. "Rachel." He took her by the shoulders and spoke to her as if she were one of the children at the orphanage. "Do you hear yourself? You're marrying us and divorcing us before we've even gone on a date."

"That doesn't make it any less true," she said.

Danny sighed, irritated by the entire conversation. Then he rose above it, "Well, I don't care," he said.

Rachel flinched, confused. "What? You don't care?"

"I don't care if that's what you think."

"Danny. There is no way this can work."

He shrugged, enthusiastically apathetic. "So what? You're right, and we can't work. And you know what? I don't care. Life's uncertain, Rachel. You're leaving the orphanage. You're considering leaving the convent. Life doesn't care what our plans are." Then he focused on her. "We almost lost them."

Rachel blinked and drew in a breath.

"Do you know how close we came to that? I'm not waiting any more. All I know is that I've never wanted to be with someone, like I want to be with you right now." Danny shrugged. "And if you can't handle that-"

In one fluid motion Rachel reached up, took his collar in her hands, and kissed him hard on the mouth. Out of sheer surprise, Danny flinched back, but then fell forward into the kiss. Danny put his left hand against the nape of her neck and pulled her face to his. In slow, natural movements, he encircled her waist with his left arm and kissed her again, long and hard.

Breathing hard, Rachel broke the kiss and whispered, "I think I can handle that." She searched his eyes. Then she pressed her lips against his again, and they remained in the airport, amongst the people coming and going in and out of the terminal.

Eventually, out of respect for the visitors around them or realization on their own part, Danny and Rachel broke apart. They looked at each other, uncertain as to what they saw or what it meant or what it would become, only knowing that it was different and it had changed. At one point, Rachel turned around and leaned back against Danny's chest, and Danny held his hands gently on her waist. They stood there together, watching the departing planes take off from the runway and the arriving planes fly back into the city.

The afternoon sunlight glowed through the windows. Some disappeared into the shadows while the remaining light rested on their faces. Without provocation, a little smile quirked its way onto Rachel's face and she elbowed Danny lightly in the ribs.

Danny flinched and let off an "ow", before saying, "What was that for?"

"You know what that was for."

Danny smiled and raised his eyebrows. "Sorry. I didn't mean to get you all excited."

"Big liar. Yes, you did."

"Okay, so maybe I did. It isn't my fault it worked."

Rachel rested her head backwards and arched her neck to look up at Danny. "So… what's going to happen now?"

Danny smiled. He put his fingers underneath her chin, tilted her face up, and kissed her. Then he said, "I don't know."

They both turned back to listen to the airplanes as they starting their engines, soared into the sky, and took off into flight. Alone, it would have been a desolate sound. In company, it was a pleasant, secret sound, closing them in together.


	87. The End

Eventually, Danny and Rachel left the airport terminal. Danny walked Rachel out to her car, and he kissed her once more through her open car window before they went their separate ways. Danny walked to the other side of the parking lot alone. He unlocked his car and settled into the well-worn driver's seat of his Dodge Stratus. When he sat down, he felt something pinch against his side. He reached down into the inside of his suit jacket, and then he remembered. Jordan's Mix CD.

Danny Taylor smiled and let off a silent laugh. He slid the CD into the car player, buckled his seat belt, and started the car. A waltz beat began. The guitar kicked in, followed by the bass, and then light, lively piano chords. Danny laughed softly, this time out loud. He backed up the car out of its space and made his way out of the parking lot. He paid the fee, and he turned his car onto the open road.

Danny rolled down his window and put on his sunglasses. He hummed the tune of the song. In his mind's eye, he could see Jordan sitting in the passenger's side of his car that night he picked her up in Fairton. She'd gazed out of the window and then looked at him.

_The music just means so much more when someone's gone, you know?_

Having heard the song before, Danny sang along very softly. "I'm never gonna know you now, but I'm gonna love you anyhow."

Above him, airplanes soared into the sky. Danny took an exit and entered onto the freeway back into the city. He would call Jack and the rest of his team to let them know that he was on his way. Today would be another busy day.

The End


End file.
